


No Words

by nicKnack22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Friendship, M/M, Mentors, References to Suicide, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Reichenbach, Gregory Lestrade is a broken man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disbelief

Gregory Lestrade was sitting on a sofa, staring at the mug of tea resting in his hand. He had made it over an hour ago and it had long since gone cold, but he had never taken a sip, not one. He had spent the better part of his time staring at the murky brown liquid without even realizing that it was there. Now he set the cup down on the table.

It was one of his old mugs blue, chipped, battered, and perfectly fitted to his hand after years of persistent use, meant to be comforting. It was not the expensive bone china cups and saucers that Mycroft preferred. No, this mug was made to soothe Greg with its familiarity and endurance. He always was afraid of breaking the cups Mycroft bought, but today, today Greg did not want to be allowed near anything breakable. He shuddered slightly and hunched his shoulders; he did not want to think about, let alone, see anything break.

He took in a shuddering breath and ran his hands over his face. He was scruffy, unkempt, needed a shave and a shower and a change of clothes. He also needed to sleep, badly. He desperately wanted to rid himself of the burning sensation that constantly stung the back of his eyes. Will it ever get easier? Ever? From where he was sitting right now, he sincerely doubted it. He clenched his jaw with enough force to damn near break a tooth, and barely succeeded in stifling a sob. It had been a week. A bloody week since…

Greg had to face what had happened. He understood that. He knew in his bones that he had to deal with the reality of the situation. But, somehow, he couldn't. He was the strong one, the responsible one, the one who was meant to sort it out. Mycroft could be imperious and commanding and direct the whole bloody nation. And Sherlock-he could be brilliant, but he is-was—always getting into trouble…Whenever the two were in a room together, Greg was the one to mediate, keep the peace, and interject with some common sense. Hell, Greg was the one to make sure they occasionally found themselves in the same room. He made sure that Sherlock was eating properly and had cases to keep his mind occupied. He reminded Mycroft that the nation did not only function on a macro level, it also existed right here in their home in their family. Greg did all of these things. He always did these things. He was the lone voice of sanity calling out in the wilderness of Holmes. Now he was faced with an impossible situation. He was lost and broken, but he had to keep going, he needed to conjure that rational person into being right now but…he couldn't.

When he had gotten the call, his first reaction was complete disbelief. Sherlock couldn't be dead. That's bloody ridiculous. It just wasn't possible. Greg had had some choice words to say about it, too. None of them would have been permitted in a room with children. The truth was that, despite the amount of invective and denial, he had felt the bottom drop out of his stomach; he was woozy, felt light headed. The DI had stormed past the officers and drove to the hospital in a complete haze. It was, frankly, a miracle that he didn't die on the way there. Not that Gregory Lestrade believed in miracles anymore.

Going to the hospital to see Sherlock was not out of the ordinary for Greg. In fact, it was a habitual occurrence every few months. Granted, it used to happen with far more frequency and there had been some genuinely frightening moments interspersed amongst the more benign chemical explosions, poison ingestions, and roof-top bumbles. Greg was old hat with it all; he was the customary first responder. He knew the routine well, by heart even. He would turn up, worry, and rescue the medical team from Sherlock, who was the worst patient imaginable. He would keep Mycroft calm and make sure that neither brother instigated too much, fussing over the kid while trying to be a bit covert about it. They all knew their parts in the ritual…a routine that did not typically begin with a reported death. There's been a mistake. A bloody stupid mistake, that's all, he reassured himself, but he couldn't quite stop the persistent tremor in his hands as they clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. Sherlock got himself knocked around a bit, nothing more. He'll be a bloody bastard about recouping. John will have his hands full, that's for sure. Don't envy that poor sod. Mycroft will have sorted out this Moriarty business before they even get Sherlock's x-rays the way the little idiot grouses. I'm going to give him hell for putting me through this. Greg continued this litany as he broke speed limits, ran red lights, and nearly hit a pedestrian. He's okay. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's bloody Sherlock; of course he'll be okay.

He dashed into the hospital wildly, trying to find Mycroft, who had surely beaten him here. Greg sprinted past the nurses' station with complete indifference to their words. His dark eyes were zipping wildly around over the father sitting with a colicky child, the drunken teen with a gunshot wound, the pregnant woman who was clearly in labor, searching for a familiar face. John should be here. Where the bloody hell else would he be? You can't separate the two of them! Mycroft should be here too. Where the fuck are they? They're worrying me. They are taking years off of my life. This was unnerving. The uneasy feeling in the pit of Greg's stomach increased in intensity by several levels and the tremors had traveled from his hands to his torso.

That's when Mycroft came in with a face that was hard as ice, and just as cold. His eyes were completely vacant and his posture was rigid, as if his frame were being propped up by poles and nothing else. His characteristic swagger was gone and there was an air of defeat radiating from him that Greg had never seen before. When their eyes met across the room, Greg felt a jolt of confirmation shoot through his limbs, like a thunderbolt burning and then numbing him. He swore that his hair was standing on end with it. He opened his mouth and gripped the railing that some hospital bureaucrat had had the foresight to install in this hallway, probably for moments just like this one. It's not a moment, Greg, you stupid blighter everything is all bloody right. Yet, even as he told himself this, he knew that it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not with John missing and Mycroft looking like that, as if he dreaded coming even a step nearer to Greg, as if he were made of twigs and likely to snap. Mycroft had never in all the time they'd known each other, in all the time they'd been together, ever, looked at Greg the way that he did now. It was frightening. Greg was scared. And he decided conclusively that he did not want Mycroft to say anything. He did not want any of this to be true.

He took a deep breath and he knew, from the way that Mycroft stared at him, that his own eyes were zipping about in fearful anticipation, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the handle of his partner's umbrella, anything but his face. He was desperately trying to steady himself, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"My," he cleared his throat firmly, "My they, ah, um, called me and said that Sherlock was here. Is he, ah, all right? Is he injured? He was about due for it, eh? What's it been seven mon-?"

Mycroft came closer, and Greg noticed that he was leaning on his umbrella like a cane. It made him seem suddenly old, weighed down by a long life. But he's not, Greg thought, We're not. God damn it. Why does he look like that?

When he spoke, Mycroft's voice was as composed as ever, though Greg knew that it was forced. It sounded like it was an effort to maintain control. Why is it?

"That isn't what they told you, Gregory," he said, thinning his lips and closing his eyes, before meeting Greg's full on, "Sherlock is not injured."

Greg sighed with relief, "Then what the hell are we doing here? Where is he?"

"Gregory, he isn't here," Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's arm. The DI was shaking like a leaf. "What they told you was true," Mycroft's otherwise smooth voice caught and unexpectedly broke, "Sherlock is not here, Gregory, he is in the mortuary."

The words hit Greg like a blow to the chest. His mind refused to believe them, wanted desperately to reject them, but he knew that they were true. The DI's legs gave way beneath him, and Mycroft dropped his umbrella, catching Gregory as he collapsed to the floor.

"No," Greg said, "No, that, that, that can't be. Mycroft he can't be. Sherlock isn't—" he gripped Mycroft's arm and buried his face in his waistcoat.

"I am sorry, Gregory," Mycroft said and he rested his hand comfortingly in Greg's thick silver hair, "I am so very sorry."

Shock melded with sadness tinged with denial, quickly followed by an aching regret. The last words he had spoken to Sherlock, the last moments he had been with him, he had had him arrested. He had betrayed him, he had—Greg let out a strangled sob.

It was a mark of the extremity of loss and grief that these two men—one of whom hated being emotionally demonstrative and the other who was quite private about his relationship with the Holmes'—were sitting on the floor in the hallway of St. Bartholomew's Hospital paralyzed by grief. Greg couldn't even begin to deal with or analyze the way that he felt in this moment while tears fell unheeded from his eyes.

"I want to see him."

"Gregory are you sure that that's best?"

"Mycroft," he said pulling back and wiping his face, staring straight into Mycroft's eyes, "I need to see him."

Mycroft seemed to evaluate the relative merits of this in relation to the further emotional and psychological damage that it would accrue. Finally, after some particularly soulful contemplation, he nodded, "Of course, Gregory. You should, however, be aware that he is…he is in rather bad shape."

"I've seen bodies before, Mycroft," he tried to be gruff, but Mycroft saw straight through it. Well he would, wouldn't he? If there had ever been a period in which Greg been able to hide his thoughts or feelings from his partner; it had ended so long ago that he couldn't even remember it.

Mycroft considered him for a long moment and then responded delicately, "Never Sherlock's, Gregory."

The DI clenched his jaw, determined, "Still."

"Very well."

Mycroft helped Greg to stand, and together they walked, arm in arm, to the mortuary, supporting one another, though Greg leaned into Mycroft rather heavily. It felt like his knees were made of rubber, his stomach of lead; he had lost his head somewhere completely. Grief felt like an ache throughout his entire body. It consumed him. It was easier to worry after the other survivors than to think about their current destination and what waited for him there. He was concerned for Mycroft. He was downright frightened for—

"John," Greg was suddenly alert and panicked. He could feel his pulse speed up, couldn't catch his breath. He might have a heart attack (at least I'm in the right place for it), "Where's John? Sherlock would want us to look after John. He must be—"

Mycroft stopped walking and turned to face Greg holding his shoulder one hand and using the other to tilt the DI's chin until he was looking straight at Mycroft, "Gregory, look at me. Yes? Okay, now breathe, Gregory, you need to breathe. There you go. In and out. Yes, exactly. Slowly." Greg inhaled and exhaled as he was told, focusing on the familiar blue orbs before him, "There we are. John is in the mortuary. He is alive, though, I daresay that he is not well."

Greg nodded tightly and he rested his forehead on Mycroft's chest for a moment, gasping. He had to pull himself together before he saw John. Sherlock wouldn't want him to present a stroppy mess. Don't be dull, Lestrade, he would have said, Sentimentality gets you nowhere. Just look at yourself. Sherlock's voice in his head was so strong and clear that Greg almost looked around to find the boy. His boy. He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could and tried not to cry. Christ, I'll never hear him again. In that moment, the DI would have traded anything in the world to have Sherlock standing there in the hallway calling him an idiot for caring. You call this an advantage? He would ask disdainfully. Greg would not have been able to mount any sort of defense.

He pulled back and looked at Mycroft, clutching at his suit jacket. Mycroft kissed his forehead gently, and placed his hands on either side of Greg's face, evaluating him closely before nodding, taking Greg by the hand, and leading him onward. It was honestly, without a doubt, the longest walk that Gregory Lestrade had ever taken in his life because he knew that, at the end of it, he would see something that he had never wanted to see, not even in his grisliest nightmares. Greg had always been afraid of this, always, but he had pushed it aside, buried it. He didn't want to ever even entertain the possibility. Sherlock was smart, he was bloody brilliant, and he was vibrant, alive, charged, stubborn all the ruddy time. There was no way that he could—that he could ever—die. It just wasn't on. It was too normal, too blasé, to ordinary. People died, Sherlock would go on living forever, just to prove a point. It just wasn't possible for him to be gone. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth," Sherlock had once said.

They had reached the mortuary, Mycroft held open the door, squeezed Greg's hand, and nodded that he should continue. Greg squared his shoulders as best he could and stepped through the door, knowing that, as he did so, he was crossing a giant divide in the universe between before and after, between a world with Sherlock Holmes and a world, however impossible, without him. It was a wonder that the earth kept on spinning, to Greg it felt like it had stopped because that was when he saw the body, lying on the table. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath to keep from fainting. He wished it would all just disappear, everything, all of it. He opened his eyes again.


	2. Seeing

"Oh my god," Greg whispered and he shuffled to the table with halting steps. He both wanted to draw nearer to see, to confirm, to try to undo this dreadful mistake and, at the same time, to stay away, turn right around and leave without a backward glance, pretend that this wasn't real. But he couldn't because that was his Sherlock lying there. He reached the boy's side and looked down, swallowing hard, "Sherlock, oh my god. Oh my god."

He didn't know what to do with his hands. Without conscious thought, one came to rest on Sherlock's. The skin, always so pale was so blanched, totally drained. Sherlock had always looked like he was made of marble. People thought that he would be cold to the touch, but Greg knew that wasn't the case. Sherlock was warm when Greg gripped his shoulder, or hugged him (under great protest), on that first night when the consulting detective had been sick with withdrawal symptoms, and Greg had mopped his hair off of his forehead , his skin had been downright feverish. It was just silly to think that Sherlock was made of ice, but now his skin was cold to the touch and it was stiffing with rigor mortis, and Greg realized that it would never be warm again...

He let out a strangled sob. Sherlock's dark curls were matted with blood, dark red splotches and smears of the substance streaked across his broken face, the normally distinct features barely recognizable, half of his head was caved in from where it had hit the pavement, and his normally bright, clear eyes were closed, unseeing, never to make another observation. Greg had to shut his own eyes tightly for a moment, trying to block the image that was burned into his retinas. This is too much. His free hand went automatically to Sherlock's forehead (what was left of it) trying to brush the curls away, to soothe and comfort, though he knew that he could never do either of these things again. There was no response, no protest, and no grudging acceptance. Nothing. Sherlock wasn't here. He was gone. Truly gone. Greg had heard it said that no parent should outlive their child. He had never felt that that applied to him. But now he understood. He really did. He couldn't even begin to—

"I'm sorry Sherlock," he shook his head and pulled his hand back, "God, I am so so sorry."

Mycroft had come up behind Greg without him realizing it. The first intimation he had of his presence was when he felt hands on his waist and a forehead bury itself into his shoulder.

"Gregory, I am sorry."

"He's dead, Mycroft."

"I know, Gregory, I know."

Greg felt tears begin to run down his cheeks, but he hastily brushed them away when he heard the door to the mortuary open. Both he and Mycroft looked over to see John Watson being led into the room by the medical examiner.

John looked like a ghost, like a soldier who had seen too much. He was broken, empty. Something had snapped; some part of him was gone. He didn't even notice Greg or Mycroft. He just stared blindly before him until he saw Sherlock and then he sank into a chair and clenched his hands together, looking away. He was a shell of himself, pale, shadowed. He seemed smaller somehow, folded inward. Whatever it was that made him John Watson (his soul, his heart, his spirit) was gone. He just bowed his head over his hands and rocked slightly. Mycroft observed, but Greg knew what had to be done. It was always easier to deal with someone else's pain than his own. He walked over to John and rested a hand on his arm.

The ex-army doctor, who had, in his lifetime, seen more death and destruction than anyone Greg knew, had finally shattered. There was just a crippled husk where John Watson used to be. It actually hurt Greg to look at him. It was like there had been too deaths. John's eyes were wide and unseeing; he appeared to have aged at least ten years in the past few hours. Greg couldn't judge, he felt like he had lived three lifetimes himself.

"John," the DI, placed his hand on the smaller man's stooped shoulder and could feel the persistent tremors that wracked his tense frame, "John? Mate?"

John's head snapped up and he starred at Greg vacantly like he'd never seen him before, couldn't recognize him.

"He fell," his tone was completely flat and his gaze began to dart about, anywhere but at the body, "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead," and he buried his face in his hands, releasing a keening cry.

Greg felt tears in his own eyes and he glanced over to where Mycroft was saying something to the doctor in the corner. Molly Hooper was absent. It would be wrong to force her to do the autopsy. She always did fancy him.

"I know, John, I know," he murmured. He wasn't sure that he had any comfort to give, but he would try for John and for Mycroft, when the time came.

John looked like a man lost, devastated, but at least he seemed to know who Greg was now, "He's gone, Greg, he's—" he licked his lips and worked his mouth, trying to find words, "Greg he kille—" furious blinking, "He jumped, Greg. He bloody jumped."

He gripped Greg's arm like a vice and stared at him, as if the DI held the answer for which he so desperately searched. Christ, Greg thought, Christ help me.

"Why would he-?" John paused and tried again, his voice kept breaking, but he seemed to need to say this, and, when it came out, it was nothing more than a cracked whisper, "Why would he do that? Why would he leave me? He jumped, Greg, he jumped. He's dead." His eyes were wild but then went dull. He released Greg and held onto himself instead.

There was a stirring behind them, and the doctor made to cover the body. Greg turned around, and John jumped up so quickly that he almost crashed into the older man.

"What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?" he yelled at the doctor, "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Mycroft nodded to Greg, and the DI caught John around the middle, preventing him from moving forward. "Easy," he said, though his own voice shook, "You know how this works, John."

He looked at Greg with accusatory eyes, "They're taking him away. Greg, you've got to stop them. They can't—they mustn't—they can't take Sherlock away. They can't," he struggled against Greg's hold for a minute more and then collapsed, all the fight gone out of him. By then, the medical personnel had wheeled the bier out of the room. There was a gaping hole where Sherlock had lain. Greg steered John back into the chair. The blogger just stared into space, catatonic, whispering repeatedly, "He's gone." His words echoed in the still room, in Greg's head and his heart, and the DI stood next to John until the blogger lapsed into silence.

Mycroft had left with the body, but he was back now. He gently slid an arm around Greg's waist and studied John with such sadness and pity that Greg managed to be stunned despite the ache in his chest and the strange sense of numbness that was spreading throughout his body. The truth was that he had no answers to John's questions. None. Why had Sherlock jumped? Was it his fault? Had he caused this? His tears fell silently. He knew he would be angry when he could feel something again, but whether at himself or Sherlock was anyone's guess.

"I've made the arrangements for the body, John," Mycroft squeezed Greg gently, drawing strength and comforting at the same time. What a strange, sad picture the three of us must make. The doctor didn't even twitch, but Mycroft was undeterred, "The funeral will be held in three days' time." John still didn't respond.

"If you need anything, John," he paused, trying to find the right words to convey what he needed to in this moment, "Anything at all, you've but to ask."

John nodded slightly, perhaps just to shut Mycroft up. Greg didn't blame him, words were useless right now. Nothing was right.

"You can come home with us," Greg offered, "We've a guest room. You know you'd be—"

"No," John's tone brooked no resistance, flat but firm.

Mycroft paused and continued in a would-be placating tone undermined only slightly by strain and exhaustion, "Are you quite sure, John? It wouldn't do to have you pottering about—"

John interrupted with an icy edged voice, raw, and pained, "I said, no, Mycroft. Bloody leave it."

"John, he wouldn't want—" Greg's own voice broke then and he looked away to compose himself, which was just as well since Mycroft interjected.

"Very well, I'll have a car come to take you home," he said.

"It's not, not anymore," neither of the older men had to ask what he meant. They all just stood together, feeling the absence, the loss, of their brother, son, partner, friend.

Mycroft arranged transportation, and he and Greg made sure the John was safely inside 221B. They went up with him. Greg made tea, into which he slipped prescription sedatives, and John fell asleep on the sofa after a few forced sips. He hadn't spoken a word since Mycroft had offered to take him "home."

"Should we just leave him here?" Greg asked, "I'm worried about him."

Mycroft stared at the DI, "I, however, am worried about you. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, and I have significantly increased the security team charged with Dr. Watson's protection." He tugged Greg's hand, "He shall be fine. Come along."

Greg didn't remember driving to their flat; he didn't remember arriving there either. But he found himself, a short time later, in the room that was "Sherlock's" from long ago. The consulting detective didn't keep much here anymore. It was a lie low, a place to store contraband that John didn't allow in their flat (there was a large refrigerator/freezer for excess body parts), relics from earlier cases, unwanted gifts from former clients, notebooks, miscellaneous diagrams. It looked a lot like the sitting room from Baker Street, but with a bed in the midst of the clutter instead of a sofa. Greg walked over to it and collapsed there, staring about himself with wide, unseeing eyes. This damn well hurts. Mycroft found him there after a few moments. He took off his immaculate jacket and laid it on the top of the microscope before getting into the bed with Greg and wrapping himself around the man, holding him tightly as if he would absorb his pain through proximity.

"I am so sorry," he whispered in Greg's ear as the DI cried, taking deep shuddering breaths.

"So am I."

That had been three days ago. Three painful days in which time did not flow normally, in which minutes hurt so painfully they might as well be decades of torture, in which hours flew by so quickly that Greg wasn't sure how he had become so lost in his own thoughts or where he had traveled during that time. His memory took him back to the days when Sherlock was still struggling to find himself. The first time the boy had called him Greg. The day the DI had successfully managed to have a "family" dinner in which Sherlock and Mycroft were civil to one another (most of the time). The way that Sherlock looked at John when he though no one was watching. The young detective's fevered excitement about new cases, the electrified energy that he brought to crime scenes. The haughty disdain that he held for humanity at large, the ways in which he tried to protect himself from his own heart. How young and lost and alone he had appeared the first time Greg had seen him. The DI wondered if he was lost and alone now, wherever he was. He couldn't bear the thought of that. Sherlock needed someone to look after him. How could Greg do that if he was gone?

The funeral would be held this afternoon. Mycroft had arranged everything down to the last detail. Greg had promised himself that he would be presentable and strong for Sherlock, for Mycroft, for John especially. Sherlock would want Greg to look after John. He could do it. Really he could. Sherlock would expect him to, even if it was impossible, even if it killed him. Thinking about Sherlock was hard. It ached.

Greg gave his face one last rub. Bloody hell, I'm must be a sight. He stood and shuffled away. He showered and shaved and dressed in his best suit. Mycroft had made sure to have it pressed for the occasion. Greg stood staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. He looked old. He looked like he was barely a step away from death himself, but he sighed and nodded, come on, Greg, come on. You can do this. You need to do this. Tears were back in his eyes again, he couldn't seem to stop them.

Mycroft was at the door, looking as debonair as ever, but completely drained and deeply stressed. There were new lines around his eyes. Greg had tried to get him to talk about it, but he was proving especially resistant to any inquiries into his emotions regarding the situation. Greg knew that the brothers had a tumultuous relationship at best, but still, he ought to be able to talk about it…

"Are you ready?" Mycroft asked tentatively.

Greg turned to face him, "No," he took the offered hand and gripped it gently, "but let's go."

Mycroft squeezed back and they left the flat together a sober couple with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter II. What did you think?
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this story. If you get the chance, please, leave a comment; I would love to hear your thoughts. This story was meant to be a two shot, but I've decided to extend the angst beyond these two chapters. 
> 
> Much love.


	3. Goodbye

The funeral was a dismal affair. Though, to be fair, when were they ever not? This one in particular, Sherlock's in particular, was difficult and painful. Closed casket because…well, because he had jumped off of a building to his death. There was only so much that could be done to hide the physical damage. No one wanted to see his once so distinguished features broken to pieces like so many bloody, shattered pieces, ruined, forever lost. No one could bear to see Sherlock lying there, dead, unmoving, eyes closed, not saying a word. Many had often wished (with a passion) that he would just shut the hell up for a moment, just a bloody moment, Greg included, but having him silenced forever…that was not something that any one of them could tolerate.

It was a quiet service, plain, unadorned, not show-offy in the least. Greg imagined that Sherlock would not have wanted a funeral at all. His righteous indignation at being the central part of such a trite convention of the masses against his will would have been spiteful at the least. Greg could picture the young consulting detective's face clearly for a moment, contorted with disgust and disappointment at the ordinary people's mindless conventionality.

There was no afterlife as far as Sherlock had been concerned, no higher power. Things came to a conclusive end with death and that was it. To the consulting detective there had been no point in being so sentimental about these things, dressing them up in delusions of false hope was inane, the tool of a weak mind. Greg begged to differ. At this point, he honestly didn't know what he believed in (the idea that someone or something had let this happen was just unconscionable), but even entertaining the possibility that the only thing left of Sherlock was the broken body in that box, which there were about to bury…He couldn't. He could not do it. If Sherlock were really gone, totally and completely from this world, then what was left? What was the point?

He's not, Greg though firmly, trying to hold back the most recent onslaught of tears he's here in my heart, in my bloody head. It was a poor substitute for the real thing. Sometimes you need the fiction, Sherlock, he sent the message to wherever the consulting detective was, hoping that he could hear his thoughts in death as well as he had in life, Sometimes you need it, even if it isn't true, because you won't survive otherwise. That's what we ordinary people need to do. He wiped his eyes. As he did so, he wondered with a troubling shock to his system, how much longer he would be able to recall Sherlock in such detail: his voice, his face, his habits, and gestures. They would all fade with time until there was only the vaguest sense of him left to Greg. What would he do then?

When Mycroft and Greg had entered the church, the DI held his partner's hand so tightly that it was a wonder he didn't shatter any of the bones or leave bruises. To his credit, Mycroft didn't even flinch from the pressure; he just gripped back, and smiled tightly. Greg did not want to be here. But then, who would? As they walked up the aisle, he paused to look about him, observe his surroundings, but really to avoid considering their current destination.

The church was large and grandiose (Mycroft had clearly had a hand in choosing the venue). It was also dark. There were tiny windows through which faint rays of sun illuminated the floating dust motes, black marble pillars, dull flagstone floors, dark wood paneled benches, and a sort of cavernous silence that soaked up the dismal echoes and perpetuated the feeling of emptiness and conclusiveness. Whatever light or sound came into the space was quickly absorbed and dulled.

The size of the place was in direct contradiction to the congregation of mourners that gathered inside of it. There were very few who had come to see the final rites of the late consulting detective, literally and metaphorically, fallen from grace. They hovered near the altar, close to one another and yet infinitely distant.

As they drew closer, Greg saw Mrs. Hudson clutching a handkerchief to her face with both hands. She was standing next to Molly Hooper whose shoulders were hunched about her ears. The young woman was attempting to say something soothing to the 221's landlady, but was failing miserable in the attempt, to judge by the increased sobbing. The poor girl was glancing around frantically, looking for a way out. Her eyes seemed to rest briefly on Mycroft with something akin to relief, as if he might rescue her. Greg thought he saw Mycroft shake his head slightly, but he wasn't sure and, in any case, he was at that moment waylaid by Henry Knight, who had come down for the service. He shook Greg's hand vigorously, muttering something about gratitude and appreciation, but the DI didn't really give a damn. There were a few people that might have been members of Sherlock's homeless network. That was it.

No one from the Yard dared show their faces here, not even the few officers that had been on relatively "good" terms with the consulting detective. It was probably for the best that none of them had come. So help him, if Greg had seen Donovan or Anderson today, he would not have been held liable for his actions. They wouldn't have been mourning; they would have, most likely been gleeful. Just thinking about it made Greg's blood boil. He tried to tamp the lid closed on those particular feelings. Anger was good, and it was easy, but the danger lay in the direction that it could take Greg. His thoughts tended to dwell on the fact that he was responsible and how could he have allowed-? No, Greg, not today. He was angry with Moriarty for creating this situation and playing with their lives, with Donovan and Anderson for the part they had played in forcing Sherlock to such extremes. Most of all, though, he hated himself for allowing any of this to happen. That last was slowly and painfully eating him alive inside, keeping him awake at night, making him feel sick, disgusted, dirty…

Yet, even being angry at himself was easier than dealing with the underlying fact, which Greg tried to violently suppress and ignore, that, at some level, he was angry with Sherlock for dying, to killing himself, for leaving. As much as Greg wanted to ignore it, he couldn't. It kept flashing before him in a truly devastating way. It was not just that Sherlock had died. No, it was not only the shock of him being gone, which was quite enough of a gut wrenching blow every time Greg was forced to remember it, every time he checked his mobile for a text, every time he saw Mycroft's face, every single moment that he managed to forget, for even a second, about what had happened. No, it was that hard on the heels of that knowledge came the realization that not only had Sherlock died but he had taken his own life. Which, was so counter to everything that Greg knew about Sherlock, so completely contradictory to his character, something that Greg would never have considered. The boy had had some self-harmful tendencies, Greg knew, but killing himself? What on earth could have driven him to that extreme? What would have led him to a point from which there was no return? How desperate must he have felt? Then Greg was back to blaming himself for putting Sherlock in that position. He hated himself for it. But there was another part, a darker part, that hated Sherlock for not realizing that they could have found a way out of this together. Sherlock had had Greg, he had had Mycroft and John; they could have fixed this.

Nothing made him feel this paradoxical spiral of emotion like looking at the chief mourner. John Watson was standing poker straight (Greg recognized the ex-army doctor's military stance. Firm and focused but only a hair's breadth from completely falling apart). One of John's hands rested on the lid of the highly polished black coffin, his face betrayed nothing. His expression was so fixed that Greg didn't think he was capable of moving it, lest the façade break completely. No one was approaching the blogger, who looked strange in a suit, and whose aura radiated anger, devastation, and betrayal so strongly you could almost see them in a haze surrounding his person.

Mycroft had wandered off a few moments ago into the shadowy expanses of the church, undoubtedly to complain about the floral arrangements (or perhaps to continue avoiding John as much as humanly possible). He was typically devoted to detail (well, what would you expect from a Holmes? Or the man responsible for running a nation? Let alone the two combined into one?), but this trait had been amplified to a slightly frightening degree over the past few days. Greg appreciated it on some level because he would not have been able to manage all this by himself and he understood that being able to control mundane things was Mycroft's way of staying calm and dealing with complex and troubling issues, but he was worried that he was suppressing a bit too much. It's his brother for God's sakes, Greg narrowed his eyes, he's acting like he's orchestrating a bloody play for all the emotion he's showing right now. He didn't want Mycroft to hurt, that would be cruel, but he did want him to demonstrate, even if only for a moment, that he was feeling an iota of what Greg was. Perhaps he was just jealous of Mycroft's stoicism? Greg turned back to the blogger now; he could deal with Mycroft later.

He approached John cautiously, standing behind him and clearing his throat slightly. John didn't say anything; he barely moved at all, just the tiniest, most infinitesimal nod of his head to let Greg know that his presence was recognized. The doctor's eyes never changed their position, they starred at the part of the casket where Sherlock's face would be (bashed, bloody, broken) hidden beneath the lid and the simple arrangement of lilies arranged atop it. The DI wished, fervently, that John was picturing Sherlock alive rather than wrecked, dwelling on happy memories rather than the dismal recent events that had stolen him away. The current direction of his own thoughts did not leave him with much hope for John's.

He rested his hand on John's shoulder. Neither of them said a word. Greg stared at the coffin too, and felt slightly faint, thinking of what lay inside it.

Greg would never be able to remember the ceremony, or any of the details of the drive to the cemetery. He did remember, however, with striking clarity, standing by the graveside as they lowered Sherlock's body into the ground. The image of that moment was burned into his memory and would stay there for the rest of his life. His body erupted in chills and his heart clenched. He felt that part of himself was being interred as well, never to be recovered.

Mycroft stood at the foot of the grave, leaning heavily on his umbrella, face inscrutable. Greg and John stood on either side of it. John's jaw was clenched so tightly that Greg thought he could hear the man's teeth grinding from where he stood, a gaping hole separating them in their grief. John had not said a single word in Greg's presence since he had seen him in the mortuary and, though the younger man's face was impassive, closed off, and shut down completely, tears were flowing freely down his face. John looked like he would gladly jump into the ground in this moment to be with Sherlock if the consulting detective would not come back to him. It was written clearly in his shaking frame, dark hooded eyes, and the desperate gleam that shone from them. It was so painful to watch that Greg had to avert his eyes. He couldn't look at John; he couldn't look at the coffin, as they lowered it into the ground; he could not bear to see if Mycroft's face had finally broken. Instead he stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his greatcoat, staring at the grass underfoot, trying to will away his own assault of tears.

The other mourners had left. It was only the three of them now. Just these three, watching the fourth of their number leave them for good. The finality of this moment, the incontrovertible end of the once great Sherlock Holmes, was like a final twist of the knife of grief, but Greg knew that he needed to bear witness. When it was over, it was over, there was no longer any hope that Sherlock would jump up and shout surprise, or casually, brazenly stroll in the Yard demanding a case, or randomly pop into the flat at the most awkward moment. He would never go or be anywhere ever again. The coffin at the bottom of the grave was stark in its finality. It was a not joke; it was not a ruse; it was real. This was the end of Sherlock, the conclusion, the sad, bitter end.

Greg glanced at Mycroft who had bent his head, at John who had fallen to his knees, and at the patch of earth that had swallow his friend, his son, and his child whole. A sob escaped him before he could help it. A light rain began to fall. Mycroft opened his umbrella and went to stand by John shielding the younger man from precipitation that he was wholly unaware of, and Greg joined him there. After a moment of just standing, the two together heaved the army-doctor up from the ground and steered him (forcibly) away from the grave. Greg did not look back. He couldn't, not if he was to help carry John forward.

Goodbye, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is Chapter 3. What did you think? I would be very happy to hear your opinions. I am discovering that when I write angst I really write angst. To save me from continual heartbreak (and you as well), I've written a nonsense fluffy johnlock piece to be posted soon (a palate cleansing before we have more sadness). Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please, if you get the chance, leave a comment and let me know what you think.
> 
> Much love.


	4. Cracks

A week passed. Then two. Things were not getting easier, but they were normalizing into a new horrible version of reality. Greg's present existence consisted of being forced out of bed by Mycroft, taking a long hot shower, during which he vaguely hoped that he'd drown, before being coerced to drink tea and eat something.

He was on leave from the Yard for the time being, so it fell to him to find other occupations during the day to distract his mind. Mycroft was acting like it was his personal mission in life to plan every moment of Greg's days during that first week, making sure that every single second was accounted for, dragging Greg to gardens and museums and his favorite restaurants where it would have been rude to refuse eating. Honestly, Greg would have preferred staying in, sitting on the sofa and staring into space, not moving out of bed, forcing himself to sleep until he could wake up from this horrible dream, or just breathing in Sherlock's room where the air still held something of the consulting detective in it.

Greg knew these were not healthy options, and Mycroft knew that Greg knew it, which was why he continued to force his partner out of the flat from dawn till dusk, bringing him to sites of great beauty in his attempt to make the world seem less empty and remind him that there were things worth living for. To Greg's eyes all the paintings were grey. He was numb to the rain. The food, though surely succulent, had no flavor. He was under the impression that Mycroft was attempting to distract himself just as much as Greg from their current situation. He went along with it for Mycroft's sake, since the man was completely impervious to Greg's attempts to take care of him in any way. The British Government had thus far spurned any and all of the DI's overtures with a very Sherlockian "I'm fine," which was belied by the distracted and distressed countenance that he bore. Greg was just waiting for the polished exterior to crack. God help us all when it does.

Part of Greg's every day included visiting John. John who was hurting, John who seemed not to be getting any better. If anything, he seemed to become more diminished, embittered, and depressed by the hour. John, who had completely shut down after the funeral and could barely even say Sherlock's name, was almost beyond comfort or connection. He gazed into space and wandered 221B like a ghost vaguely running his hands over Sherlock's chair, his violin, the skull, as if they were precious relics, talismans that if collected in the right order might conjure the spirit of the dead.

Mrs. Hudson was worried. She seemed to be handling things better than either Greg or John, though, the DI supposed, she was much older and had seen more of life. She had called Greg once, to ask him to check on John. Since then, the DI had made a point of coming to sit with the blogger, bringing food and prevailing upon the man to eat it, even if just a bit.

"Leave it, Greg," John had shouted; a sudden outburst that had echoed in the piercing silence of the flat.

"I won't. Stop being stupid and eat this," the two entered into a staring contest, and Greg was reminded of having to force food upon another young man once upon a time. The DI was unsure to what degree John's refusal to eat stemmed from his depression and grief and to what degree it was some sort of twisted subconscious effort to remain close to Sherlock by emulating his habits. Greg didn't have a bloody clue. He wasn't a therapist, but he did have the presence of mind to look up John's old therapist's number (all right, he got the information from Mycroft in a way that would have made Sherlock completely mad had he been there to see it. Well you aren't, Greg told the voice in his head, and this is for John so don't you start to take issues with my methods. You don't have the moral high ground on this one, mate. Greg had fallen into a habit of having full, though very one-sided, conversations with the Sherlock that lived in his head and usually stared at Greg with an impassive and judgmental expression). He used his ill-gotten information to make the doctor an appointment, and force him to go. John needed help. Don't we all? More than Greg could give. He refused to watch John drift further away every day (losing Sherlock was enough), and, as time passed and John grew more despondent, Greg recognized the need to call in reinforcements. Under normal circumstances, he would have asked Mycroft for a direct intervention, but he had been assured that that would not go over well at all.

"The doctor and I are not on good terms," Mycroft had said tightly.

"Why not?" Greg's hackles were raised.

Mycroft had sighed and, avoiding Greg's eyes, admitted softly "Because I was a fool, Gregory. Let us leave it at that, please."

And Greg had because Mycroft had looked so completely desperate and his tone had been so broken. This is something that I can do, Greg thought. What he couldn't do was leave John to suffer alone, which was why, every night at supper time; he would go and sit with the man, often in silence. Greg would bring food and try to get John to eat using every tactic from cajoling ("come on, it's your favorite") and pleading ("please, John, please just one bite of the casserole") to reason ("John, you're a doctor, you know that you need to eat something") and, when all else failed, guilt ("Sherlock wouldn't want you to do this to yourself, John"). This last was the most dangerous because it was such an open, gaping wound for both of them that touching it at all stung and burned with ferocity. John's reaction was unpredictable. Once he had cried, gut wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. The next night he had just gotten up and left without a word. A third time, he had overturned the plate, spilling its contents all across the floor and glaring at Lestrade like he hated him, like it was all his fault. Tonight, he said in a voice so broken, so resigned, and so low that Greg had to strain to hear it, "Well it doesn't matter what Sherlock would have wanted because he's dead." Neither knew what to say in response to that, and John looked a bit scared of himself as he shut his eyes tightly and apologized. Greg heaved a sigh, "It isn't your fault, John. I'll come back tomorrow, yeah?" John nodded tightly. As Greg closed the door behind himself, he caught one last glimpse of John, gazing at Sherlock's vacant chair with unmitigated sorrow.

Greg was exhausted all the time lately, but never more than when he finished his sessions with John. He walked into his flat. The lights were off, the door had been locked, it was still and silent (neither quality was Greg's friend at this juncture; they gave his mind far too much freedom to wander and present before his eyes a myriad of images and thoughts that led him down a dark twisting road upon which he'd rather not travel, as it usually ended with images of Sherlock's body in the mortuary and his own role in putting it there). The DI laid his coat over the back of the sofa with a sigh and a shake of his head. He walked down the hallway, thinking vaguely of lying down, when he saw a light shining out from beneath Mycroft's office door.

He hadn't expected him home; he'd gone into the office today and it was still a bit early. Greg would have thought this was an attempt to check up on him (not that he didn't have me tailed all bloody day anyway), but, if that had been the case, Mycroft would have been in the sitting room, dining room, or kitchen waiting imperiously with a tea service and a pointed look on his face. Closeted in his office meant work had been particularly gruesome, or he had finally broken down. Greg hesitated for only a moment before opening the door.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, head bowed, long fingers pressed against his eyes. He was trembling slightly, and Greg could hear him taking shuddering gasps of air. Confronted with this image, Greg did not hesitate for even a fraction of an instant before crossing the room, kneeling down, and taking Mycroft into his arms in a firm embrace.

"There, My, there," Greg shushed, and Mycroft relaxed completely against him, clutching at his shirt.

"Gregory…"

"It's all right, My," he pressed a kiss against Mycroft's temple and rested his cheek on Mycroft's auburn hair, "You can let it out. It's okay to miss him." Greg's voice broke, and, as much as he hated that Mycroft was hurting, as much as he himself was in pain, it felt good to be here together, holding onto one another, breathing, weathering the storm. It was good for Mycroft to let go…

"Gregory…" the sobs were less and his voice, which was slightly muffled from where it was pressed into Greg's shirt, sounded tired and resigned.

"I love you, My," Greg murmured, "and we—we'll find a way to get through this. I know you hurt, I know, but you don't have to brave for me. We can be brave for each other. You're not alone. We have each other, yeah?"

Mycroft pulled back and Greg eased his hold to let him. They were face to face, both a bit tear stained, and Mycroft reached a hand to cup Greg's cheek, brushing at the wetness beneath his eye with a thumb. The DI took his hand firmly in his own.

"My, do you want to-?"

"Gregory," Mycroft was the only one that ever called Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade by his given name. Over the years he had learned the various inflections of the title on Mycroft's tongue: flirtatious; come hither; what have you done?; don't be stupid; yes, please; why are you being unreasonable; do not take Sherlock's side; I love it when you baby my brother; I love it when you baby me; I want you; thank you for being mine; etc. This particular tone was one that he had only heard a few times and it meant: sit down and shut up because there is something very important we need to discuss. Greg did both of these things and grasped Mycroft's fingers tightly.

"We need to discuss something," Mycroft was very serious (even for Mycroft). There was no affectation to his voice, and Greg's mind went in a whole host of unwanted directions. He felt a strange sort of panicking sensation creeping up his throat. Sherlock is already dead, what the bloody hell else can there be? World War III? Nuclear explosion? Impending epidemic that would destroy the world? What if it's worse than that? Nothing can have happened to John in the past fifteen minutes…Can it? His hands were almost certainly cutting off Mycroft's blood flow. What if it's to do with Mycroft? Cancer? Aneurysm? Some sort of medical oddity for which there isn't a cure. The universe would not be that cruel, surely not. Please no, please, I can't, I couldn't, I—

Mycroft extracted one of his hands and placed it on Greg's shoulder, forcing it to come unclenched. He easily read Greg's thoughts, as ever.

"Gregory, I—" Mycroft rejoined their hands and looked at them before facing Greg again, "I am sorry."

Greg's brow furrowed, "I don't understand. Mycroft, you're scaring me."

Mycroft sighed, a great exhalation that sounded like defeat and forbearance and even a bit of fear. Greg felt his stomach drop several inches lower.

"Oh, Gregory."

"What is it, Mycroft," he was insistent, "I know that it's bloody difficult for you, but just tell me. You're shaving years off of my life with waiting. Okay? It can't be that bad."

"Gregory, it's to do with Sherlock," a toneless statement to which Greg could only respond by staring blankly. Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ.

"What—what about Sherlock, Mycroft?" Greg hesitated, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. There was only so much that a man could take. Greg would, of course, bear any burden for Mycroft without hesitation, but he wasn't sure that he could have any more news about Sherlock without completely breaking down again.

Mycroft had turned taciturn, like he dreaded saying what he had to say and it made Greg dread it exponentially more because Mycroft did not hesitate, not once he had made up his mind to do something.

"Mycroft," the elder Holmes refocused his attention at the sound of Greg's voice, "what about Sherlock?"

Mycroft straightened his spine, took a deep breath, and applied the suave veneer that he hardly ever used with Greg anymore because he knew that Greg hated it. Oh bloody hell this is going to be horrible. This is bad. Whatever it is it's bad.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock did not commit suicide, Gregory."

Part of Greg latched immediately onto this information like a saving grace, a magical talisman that he had been searching for in vain for two weeks. The other part rejected it immediately; that is not what I've been forced to tell myself every five minutes for weeks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that my brother did not kill himself."

Greg would have been worried that the strain and grief had finally driven Mycroft mad if he didn't know for a fact that he was talking to one of the single most rational human beings on earth. Still, proceed with caution. He squeezed his partner's hands and looked at him as the foundation of the strange fucked up world he had been living in since Sherlock's death began to crack and fissure.

"What happened?"

Silence.

"If he didn't kill himself then what happened?"

More silence.

"Mycroft, if he didn't jump then—"

"Oh, he jumped."

"Well then—?"

"I said that he did not kill himself. I did not say that he did not jump," Mycroft was staring at Greg, as if attempting an esoteric form of telepathy that the DI had not yet learned. There was a bizarre apologetic gleam in his eyes. Nothing remotely like madness though.

"I don't understand," Greg admitted, "Was he pushed? Did Moriarty push him? No, that doesn't make sense. John said he saw him jump. He bloody talked to him while he—" Greg swallowed, it was still difficult to say any of this without choking up. There was something off, something strange and frightening…

"Mycroft?" he said softly, beseechingly, please, love, in a world that doesn't make any sense any more at all, give me something, anything, please, because I can't do this alone and I don't know what you're saying.

With their fingers intertwined and their faces inches apart and their eyes locked, Mycroft uttered one of the single most insane and powerful phrases that Greg had ever heard come from his mouth (and Greg had heard a great many in their time together), "He is not dead, Gregory."

There was a strange whooshing sound that rushed in Greg's ears and a sort of blackening at the edges of his vision, followed by silence and a surreal clarity, "I'm sorry, ah, what?"

"Sherlock, Gregory, is not dead."

"Mycroft," he began soothingly, "yes he is. You know that he is. We saw his body, there was a funeral. I wish that he wasn't—I—"

"Gregory, he is alive," Mycroft sighed.

"This isn't funny," Greg was torn between incredulity (Mycroft would never joke about this), anger (this is not an acceptable conversation), and worry (he has finally lost his mind, that's the only explanation). Except Mycroft really would not play a joke like this, he would not do anything to intentionally upset Greg, especially during this bereavement period, and he had most definitely not lost his mind, which left only the two completely ridiculous propositions that either Greg was asleep and having a very strange and lifelike dream or that, however impossible, that Mycroft was being honest.

"That was not my intention, Gregory, my intention is to tell you the truth."

"The truth is that Sherlock is dead," Greg said firmly, though it cost him a great deal to say it.

"Don't be dull, Inspector," a deep familiar voice intoned and Greg's head wiped around so quickly that he lost his equilibrium, "I am clearly, very much alive."

His hand tightened on Mycroft's like a vice and if he hadn't already been sitting he would have fallen to the floor. Dear God, he thought with clarity, Mycroft hasn't gone mad. I have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please, leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	5. Cracks

"Oh god, don't do this," Greg whisper without really knowing to whom he appealed in his extremity. It was cruel that, on top of everything else, he was now having delusions of Sherlock being alive, and Mycroft was aiding and abetting his descent into madness…

"Breathe, Gregory."

"Do not tell me to breathe."

Greg breathed anyway. When he didn't feel like he was about to keel over at any second, he looked back and forth between the apparition and Mycroft without quite knowing what to believe.

Mycroft had his hand rather firmly gripping Greg's knee and his solicitous voice urged the DI to "consider your blood pressure, Gregory."

"Mycroft, I swear to god, this is not the time!" Greg could feel blood pounding in his ears (which probably meant that he ought to be concerned about an impending heart attack), and Mycroft catching they hysterical tone in his voice, wisely chose to desist.

Greg openly stared at the Sherlock standing the in the doorway. He did not look exactly like the Sherlock that Greg had last seen alive. He was paler, thinner, and had dark circles under his eyes. He looked a hell of a lot like a past version of Sherlock conjured from Greg's memories: friendless, out of touch, still dealing with drug problems, attachment issues, and not taking proper care of himself. Greg would have gladly accepted that as a logical explanation (I mean, I've been carrying on conversations with him in my head for bloody weeks. Maybe hallucinating him is just the next step?), if it weren't for the level of world weariness and complete and utter devastation that seemed to be coming off of Sherlock's rigid posture in waves. He was missing something essential, something invisible, but it was gone as surely as the sky was blue. He wasn't saying anything, just observing Greg and Mycroft with a haunted, closed off expression on his face.

Greg placed his hand on top of Mycroft's (it felt quite real) and said in a halting (and valiant) attempt at equanimity, "Mycroft, do you, that is," he cleared his throat purposefully and pointed emphatically at the figure in the doorway (it didn't do to be too specific at this juncture), "do you see him?"

The Sherlock did not roll his eyes or make a snarky comment, which Greg personally considered a mark against his being the real thing.

Mycroft peered intently at Greg and nodded before glancing significantly at Sherlock and saying, "He is not an apparition, Gregory. I can assure you that he is corporeally present." Greg chose not analyze the emphasis that Mycroft placed on the physical rather than mental, psychological, emotional, or personally extant nature of the phantom. There was too much happening internally for Greg to process word choice and elocution. The DI closed his eyes tightly, sucked in a huge gasp of air, which he held for the count of ten and released slowly, trying to will away the sudden lightheadedness and continued pounding in his ears. All right, Greg, if you open your eyes and he's still there, then he's real. All right? All right, deal. He held them shut for a second longer, almost afraid to peek, this was a bet with himself that he didn't want to lose.

Then he opened them and blinked five times. Sherlock was still standing there. Waiting, looking vaguely uncertain. Well then, Greg mused. That was as far as his mental processes went presently, which didn't matter because the rest of Greg, his heart and his body knew what to do. He disengaged from Mycroft, stood up (a bit too quickly given his currently shocked state, which left him feeling woozy), once he felt sure that his knees were not going to give out, he walked across the room in four very assertive and quick strides, until he was only a foot away from the young man.

Greg considered him intensely, looked him up and down, paying particular attention to his face. Sherlock stared back at him still silent. Greg felt tears prickling in his eyes because he had honestly thought that he would never…that he could never…that Sherlock was…and that he, that this, would never—

"You bloody, fucking, idiot," he said softly (unsure if he was referring to himself or the young man before him. Maybe a bit of both) and he pulled Sherlock into a hug so tight that he thought he might break something. It didn't matter. Sherlock was alive. He was amazingly, miraculously, wonderfully alive, a possibility that Greg had not dared to imagine, dream of, or hope for, not since that horrible day. The most astonishing thing was that, in this moment, not only was Sherlock alive, but, after an instant of surprised hesitation, he was hugging Greg back with force. Greg felt the boy's head on his shoulder (if it weren't for the fact that he actually held Sherlock in his arms, the DI would have considered this further proof of his being a mirage, simulacra, or ghost), and tears making a wet patch on his shoulder.

"Bloody hell, you're alive," Greg was dumbfounded, amazed, startled, boggled, completely flabbergasted. He glanced back at Mycroft who had come to stand nearby and smiled tightly in return, "You're bloody alive." He felt so overwhelmed that it was hard to think straight. It was like the part of him that had died, the part of his heart that was entirely devoted to Sherlock and had been placed in a coffin and buried with him, had come back to life with the consulting detective. The resulting euphoria was currently manifesting in rivulets of tears flowing down his cheeks, and a bright, slightly mad, grin that stretched his face and actually hurt a bit. Not that he cared, since as of an hour ago he thought he might not be capable of happiness, let alone smiling, not to mention joy. Greg squeezed Sherlock hard before pulling back and looking at him again. He would swear that there were tears in the boy's clear eyes, but he wasn't going to say anything. Not now. This was really Sherlock, you couldn't fake that face, those eyes, the carriage. You just couldn't. Greg gripped the boy by the shoulders, evaluated him closely, and then jostled him slightly.

"You idiot," he said firmly, emphatically, underlined with a slight shake, "Why the ruddy hell did you do that?" He pulled him back into another bone crushing hug and spent a full minute appreciating the fact that Sherlock was alive, home, alive, in his arms, alive, actually being affectionate, not dead, or buried or gone, or irretrievable, and most of all alive. All of which were in competition for the most miraculous aspect of this encounter.

But then the wheels began to turn in Greg's head. Gregory Lestrade had developed excellent skills of adaptation, having lived with Mycroft and Sherlock in his life for over a decade. If something completely insane presented itself (and this happened frequently), Greg dealt with it in a wholly pragmatic way. He accepted many of the quirks, foibles, craziness, awkward situations, danger, stress, high blood pressure, headaches, frustration, and general ridiculousness with good natured aplomb and a practical "how shall we deal with this?" attitude because he loved them. They were his family. That's what you do for your family. It was also a survival mechanism. You can't live with the Holmes' without developing a certain ability, and willingness, to deal with the improbable or, as they preferred, extraordinary. Greg was willing and able to accept a lot on good faith. He was prepared to support, protect, help, and care. He did all of this graciously and good-naturedly, but something struck him now: "You couldn't fake this," he had mused earlier. But someone had...If Sherlock isn't dead…the consulting detective seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts because he tensed as Greg pulled back, once again holding him by the shoulders and closely scrutinizing his face. The DI's smile had faded slightly around the edges.

"Why the ruddy hell did you do that!" Sherlock didn't make a sound, and Greg stared at him, eyebrows beginning to draw together in a state of confusion and burgeoning upset. He wasn't angry. Not yet. Since when does Sherlock not answer a question when he has an answer?

The newly resurrected glanced at Mycroft for direction (since when the ruddy hell does he do that!), and so did Greg.

"What the fuck is going on?" he was trying to keep his tone steady but it was not working.

"Gregory, please, remain calm," Mycroft signaled that he ought to stand down and his eyes looked incredibly wary. They bloody well should…

"Mycroft, what the fucking hell is going on?" Not so calm anymore. Greg could hear his heart in his ears again. If he says a single word about my blood pressure…

"Gregory, it is essential that—"

"Do not play the rational card with me, Mycroft, not right now," Greg's tone was sharper than it had ever been, cutting, biting, something he had, in his way, picked up from prolonged contact with his partner no doubt, "Did you know about this?"

There was no response. Instead Mycroft markedly refused to make eye contact and a repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists, clearly longing for his umbrella. Sherlock was watching the exchange with interest, or as much interest as a silent person who looks like they have a slight case of PTSD can mount; he still hadn't said anything and he did not respond in any way to the viselike grip that Greg maintained on his arm. The older man refused to lose physical or visual contact with Sherlock, lest he disappear into the ether.

"Mycroft, Did. You. Know. About. This?" he enunciated each word forcefully, clearly, gestured sharply to Sherlock with his free hand, and tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that insisted that Mycroft made it his business to know everything especially as it related to his brother. He would not do that to you, Greg, he would never do that do you. There has to be another explanation. There bloody has to be. There needs to be…Mycroft didn't say a word. No one did. There was silence in the room aside from Greg's heavy breathing.

"Because you told me that Sherlock was dead," Greg paused briefly, his emotions were going haywire; he was torn between nearly crying, throwing something, or laughing hysterically, "You took me to see a body. A fucking corpse, which obviously wasn't really him," he waited again. At this point, Greg was praying for Mycroft to intervene, to prove him wrong, to tell him that he had been fooled too, believed that Sherlock had died, felt the same pain, that Sherlock had duped them both. Then we can bloody ground him together and move on. He wanted Mycroft to tell him that he had not withheld this information that he would never have done such a thing, but Mycroft was not saying anything at all.

"You planned the funeral. We buried him together. You watched me cry for weeks, Mycroft." Still nothing.

"Did you know?"

"I'm sorry, Gregory," he sounded it too, but Greg wasn't really paying much attention to the tone, he was more concerned with the fact that he felt those words, that admission, like a physical slap across the face. He had been betrayed by the one person that he loved most and he had been deceived in the worst way possible.

"You knew."

"Yes."

"What about our rule, Mycroft? Honesty? Remember that?"

"Gregory—"

"You let me believe that he was dead. Our Sherlock. Dead. You let me believe that," Greg hissed.

"I cannot believe that you did that. You just let me think that—"

"Greg."

Mycroft who had been wilting under Greg's tirade, trying to mount a defense and being stymied at every turn by the incensed DI, and Greg who had been so completely hurt and just overwhelmed that he had almost forgotten that Sherlock was standing right next to him, both turned to stare at the object of their argument who had only just spoken for the first time since it began.

"You just called me Greg," gob smacked first, always a good reaction.

"Yes, it is your name, isn't it?" Sherlock considered Greg carefully, contemplatively, gauging his emotional response, and in what ways he himself was complicit in it, "Mycroft is not at fault here…for once."

"Of all the bloody times you decide to defend him it has to be right now?" Seriously, this is the story of my life. Alternate universe every other fucking day! The one bloody time I'd be on his side to take down his brother…

"I am not defending him," Sherlock paused and looked at Mycroft with a strange expression. It wasn't outwardly hostile at any rate, "Mycroft and I had put into place a plan in the event that things went out of hand. He did not know whether or not it was successful for several hours after the fact."

"Sherlock, you needn't-" Mycroft began, but Sherlock intervened.

"Oh, I know, Mycroft," he spat bitterly and that strange sense of something being missing was exacerbated for a moment, "Believe me, this is not for your benefit."

"Both of you, shut up, right now," Greg's tone had dropped and there was a wintry chill to it. Both of the Holmes' regarded him seriously and were immediately silenced. Greg did not take the time appreciate this complacency before he pushed on, "One of you had better explain what the ruddy hell is going on right now."

The brothers looked at one another: Mycroft disheartened, Sherlock angry. Greg watched them like a hawk, trying to interpret the coded messages contained in their glances. Mycroft clearly felt guilty, he bloody ought to. Sherlock was resolved to something but displeased with Mycroft, nothing new in that, though the reasons seem to have changed.

"Now."

And, after taking a deep breath, Mycroft explained, in detail. The way that Moriarty had been released, the threat that he had posed, the strategies the he and Sherlock developed in the event of an emergency, the contingency plan they had put in place when Sherlock had been promised a "fall," measures taken to protect the "inner circle," the unfortunate need to put them into effect, technical details about distance and velocity, hallucinogens, crowds, magic tricks, slights of hand, the homeless network, Molly Hooper. He elucidated to Greg, whose head was spinning by this point by the amount of information, the way that he and Sherlock had made sure to disguise a passable corpse, damaged in a believable way, the funeral orchestrations, and the necessary façade in light of the specific threats (which were vaguely described). Sherlock was silent throughout the account, appearing bored and disdainful, but also, and this was most worrisome, slightly traumatized. Greg suddenly knew who he looked like: John. The blogger had worn the same devastated expression for weeks now.

"You should have told me," Greg's tone was flat by this point.

"Gregory, I couldn't, not given the—"

"Yes you could have. You chose not to. You made that decision for me," he stared at Mycroft, genuinely hurt, "You should have told me. You knew how I felt, and we had a rule, Mycroft."

"I know, Gregory," defeatist tones in the Head of State.

Greg heaved a sigh and turned to Sherlock, "Have you told John?"

Sherlock didn't look away, but a barrier clearly dropped over his face. He was hiding in plain sight. Oh, fuck…

"Sherlock," Greg was disturbed by the armor; Sherlock deployed it only when he dealt with people he had known from childhood or Anderson, as a shield for protection, not good, "Did you tell John?"

"He can't," Mycroft said quietly.

Greg's eyes nearly bulged out of his head so apoplectic was he, "I'm sorry, I think I heard you wrong. What the hell do you mean he can't tell John? Of course he can. He has to. Have you seen the bloke lately? Sherlock you need to go and tell him right this—"

"I can't," Sherlock's voice was strained; there was pain and bitterness that he couldn't conceal beneath affected ennui despite his best efforts.

"Sherlock knows that he cannot tell Dr. Watson that he is alive. The terms of Moriarty's threat are contingent upon the fact that—"

"Yes, I know, dear brother," Sherlock said and shot daggers at Mycroft. So they've had this conversation before.

"Damn Moriarty and damn his bloody rules! He's wrecked enough havoc as it is. Sherlock, if you don't tell him, I will, he can't-" Greg began, but Sherlock quickly reversed Greg's grip on his arm so that the consulting detective was the one clutching at Greg's wrist, hard enough to leave a bruise. The indifferent veneer was gone in an instant. His face was intense, his eyes slightly wild.

"You cannot tell John," he was adamant, "If you tell John he will die."

"All right, Sherlock," Greg said, mostly to placate the younger man. The issue, as far as he was concerned, was far from closed. Sherlock seemed like he might collapse and Greg steered him into a chair. Mycroft hovered around him as he did this, and Greg was certain that that was far from over as well. He had never been quite so angry in his whole life, and Mycroft sensing this did not try to touch him or mount a strong defense. That was not his style. No, he's going to insidiously try to break me down, well good bloody luck.

"Mycroft," Greg said, as he sat down and placed his face in his hands, "go make some tea. I really can't deal with this right now."

"Yes, Gregory," he said softly, Greg didn't want to see the meek, apologetic look; it would either break his resolve or incense him still further.

Sherlock was staring into space and Greg was staring at him, "I'm glad you're alive."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he nodded briefly before he too put his face in his hands in a gesture very reminiscent of his detested elder brother. Greg had to wonder, as he looked at a broken Sherlock, felt the ache of betrayal that tainted this reunion, and saw Mycroft's expression as turned his back and left the room to make some tea, if any of them would really make it out of this unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 5! Thank you to all of you who have read (and especially commented), you make this such a lovely experience. If you get the chance leave a comment, they encourage me to keep going. New chapter soon!


	6. Caring

In another universe Greg Lestrade's life would have been different. There were so many points at which he could have chosen another outcome. He could have refused to take the promotion at the Yard and moved to Oxford as he'd planned. He could have been a coward and stayed with his wife despite how horrible things had become between them. He could have listened to his friends in the wake of the divorce and adopted a puppy (instead of a wayward twenty year old genius). He could have stayed home that fateful day when Sherlock, and subsequently Mycroft, first walked into his life. He could have refused both of them. He could have let Sherlock wander off and spurned Mycroft's eccentric and vaguely menacing charms. He could have turned down any overtures and ignored how he felt. He could have refused to become so emotionally invested in the two of them. Any of those paths, those little choices, which weren't even necessarily conscious, and which were, to a large degree, navigated purely by his character, his gut, and the impulsive desires of his large heart, would have led him far from here. They would have created a Greg Lestrade very different from this man who sat on a sofa in his home with his newly resurrected son and too many conflicting emotions to process. The idea of a Lestrade who had never loved Mycroft, who would have never known or cared about Sherlock, was odd, wrong, and foreign.

In one of those many potential, alternate universes, Greg Lestrade would take the miracle of Sherlock's return with a wide smile and a completely forgiving hug. He would laugh off the antics as merely another example of the ways in which Holmes' were a rare breed. He would allow joy to consume him and release all the angst, sorrow, and bitterness. He would simply allow himself to be grateful and happy. He would hug Sherlock, kiss Mycroft, tell them both off (in an affable and jocular manner) for worrying him and make them swear to behave from here on out. In another world. But Greg, our Greg, was not that person. He may wish to be that man, but he wasn't, he couldn't be, not with these stakes, not with this reality, not with the situation currently staring him in the face.

The situation was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, recently deceased, except he wasn't. Now, he was perched upon the edge of the sofa in Mycroft's study, next to Greg, with his face in his hands and an attitude of deep concentration, the type of focus he typically reserved for a highly difficult and painful problem. He was not wearing his excited deducing face, or even his challenged one. No, the expression he wore suggested that what currently occupied the larger part of his exceptionally capable mind was not pleasant in the least. There was a grim set to his mouth.

Greg knew this because he had made certain decisions long ago, tiny steps along a road that had placed him, somehow, inexorably, and intimately with the people, who (for better and worse) made up his family, a tribe of which, for reasons he wasn't sure even he understood, he was somehow the caretaker. It's why in addition to just marveling at Sherlock's return, he was evaluating the consulting detective's relative appearance, trying to measure this face against the most recent one that he had in his mind's eye (no, not that one, Greg, the live one, don't think on the other ever again). After several moments' contemplation, he decided that "strained" was probably the best word to describe Sherlock right now. Distracted too, he added when Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care about the volume of the DI's thoughts. He was either somewhere so deeply ensconced in his mind palace (a hidden chamber or secret passage, because Sherlock's mind palace would have those) that he wasn't aware of Greg (not bloody likely), or he was in a state of shock (shouldn't that position go to me right now?).

"Sherlock," he offered, "you all right?"

Sherlock raised his head and looked at Greg with red rimmed, icy green eyes. He considered the DI's question seriously, and appeared to come to a conclusion that was revealing and unpleasant. He laughed for a moment, just a short burst of bitterness; like shattered glass caught in his throat.

"No," he said flatly, "I am not."

"Oh," Greg had expected a protestation (that's how a conversation like this, this being Sherlock's health or wellbeing, not his recent resurrection, usually went) not a straightforward admission, and was thus ill-advised on how to proceed.

"You want to talk about it?"

"You can't be serious," Sherlock's eyebrows quirked slightly, but they couldn't distract Greg from the new lines etched around his mouth and over the bridge of his nose, undoubtedly from the frown he was wearing now and had undoubtedly been wearing for the past two weeks.

Greg shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Things might go better if he pretended to be at ease even if he was anything but. He was an expert at pretending he knew what was going on, even if he had no idea. It made things go more smoothly. Who am I kidding? There is no way this is going to go well. "I am."

Sherlock turned away, got up and paced a bit, agitatedly walking over and standing by the bookshelves in the corner. Greg was tempted to go after him, but remained seated instead. He's not going to disappear again; he admonished the part of himself that didn't want Sherlock out of his sights, the part that was all for tying the boy up and instituting a strict curfew, maybe locking him in his room if necessary. Greg was actually to the point where he was seriously considering completely reversing his stance on Mycroft's casual attitude towards clandestine surveillance. Don't think about Mycroft just now, he told his brain and focused on something else before he could open that particular can of worms.

"He threatened you, as well," Sherlock seemingly commented to the complete works of Jane Austen.

"What?"

"Moriarty, he threatened John and Mrs. Hudson, and you," Sherlock's tone remained neutral, but he kept his rigid back to Greg while he spoke. The DI didn't interrupt, though he very much wanted to make some pointed inquiries. Sherlock would get to it in his own time. There was a rare hesitation in his presentation of this particular evidence for Greg's assessment.

"His aim was to attack those that I care for."

Greg smiled briefly despite himself. From Sherlock, that's about as much of a declaration of love as I'm ever going to get.

"Don't be dull, Lestrade, of course," Sherlock said, reading Greg's mind as per usual, as he turned around to face the DI from across the room, "That's why you weren't told,"

The DI remained seated, arms crossed, and waiting for whatever was to come next. "Who else knows?"

"Mycroft, obviously. Molly Hooper, again, clearly," Sherlock linked his hands behind his back.

"You could have said something to me," Greg was firm about this. He had to make sure this was clear. He had to somehow make up for his part, orchestrated or not, "I could have helped."

Sherlock gave his head the briefest of shakes and rolled his eyes, "Don't you see? You had to believe that I was dead. Moriarty's snipers had to believe it. They would have noticed if your reaction was not genuine."

"But now it's fine for me to know?" Greg queried dubiously, "What's changed?"

After the briefest pause, Sherlock replied, "Mycroft felt that continuing the charade was detrimental to your health…I agreed. Besides, I will need your complicity in the next stage of this operation."

Greg was about to request an immediate elaboration of both points: had Mycroft really advocated that he been included into the Holmesian Elite Top Secret Society of Master Plans and Deduction? Would he now be given a membership card? At what point was it decided that he was worthy of incorporation? From the start? As soon as he found out about Sherlock's death? When he cried over Sherlock's corpse? When he helped John after the funeral? When he was so depressed that he hardly felt like living? At what point had it been deemed necessary? Did it even matter? Had Sherlock been aware of all of this the whole time? Has he been watching us mourn him? Greg had to consider what that must have been like. As much as Sherlock enjoyed having his ego stroked, the DI doubted very much that it would be entirely pleasant to watch the few people that you cared about falling apart; knowing that the source of their pain was in your hands but being unable to change it. It had certainly not been pleasant for Greg to experience it on his side of things. He was quite sure this might explain the overwrought look that Sherlock currently bore, at least, in part…However, even more pressing to Greg was what Sherlock meant by the (to Greg's ears, exceedingly ominous) phrase "next stage of this operation." He was opening his mouth to inquire about this directly when Mycroft entered the room and the two men turned to face him.

The elder Holmes carried a tea tray. Porcelain cups and delicate pot, the type that Greg usually avoided, but Mycroft couldn't help but use in company. Greg was under the impression that it was a part of his troubled upbringing that he couldn't shake. "My mother was a detestable woman," he had told Greg once, ironically, right before the DI met the woman for the first time, "But she taught me the value of a good tea service. And that includes fine china, Gregory, not that deplorable crockery that you use." Greg had rolled his eyes. Now, he surveyed his partner as he elegantly poured out and marveled at the fact that he was handed, not the dainty demitasse that he despised but his favorite blue mug. Mycroft gave him a small apologetic smile and his eyes asked Greg if he would accept this as a small overture, the first of many apologies. Greg took the cup, but didn't make any promises by look or gesture; accepting the tea with civility was enough for the moment.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, taking charge, "Do come and sit down and let's be civilized, please. I believe that we three need to talk."

Sherlock made a mildly disgusted face (he did so hate following Mycroft's orders, even one so innocuous at "sit down") but came to join the tea party (and strategy session) without comment. He perched upon the sofa next to Greg. Mycroft handed him a cup and saucer and arranged himself in one of the wing chairs, facing them across the coffee table. They all sipped in silence for a moment: Mycroft calculating, sharp, yet wary; Sherlock strangely absent (he seemed to alternate very rapidly between intense focus on the present moment and a vague withdrawal from the room and the rest of humanity in general. Greg, who had known him, raised him, and worried about him for years, was even less sure of the location to which he was currently disappearing than ever before. The cold look on the younger man's face gave him pause. If by pause you mean chills and a very bad feeling); and Greg extremely tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop because he knew that something was coming and soon.

"So," Greg broke the silence, ready to get this over with. It should be a happy event, the fact that the three of them were all sitting in a room together, drinking tea, alive, Sherlock and Mycroft had not even swapped insults yet, but the tension was so thick between Mycroft and the other two that you could practically taste it, "You'll be staying with us then for a while, yeah?" Greg was starting to go in a practical, organizational direction mentally. If Sherlock was going to be a ponce about John, he could at least stay here until he came to his senses (or Greg completely trounced him into submission, he was mentally cataloguing the ways that he could guilt Mycroft into coming to his aid. He owes me in a very serious way). "You room is still here and we could—Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

The younger man looked up, glanced at Greg, then Mycroft, and then back. He was doing that a lot lately and it seemed to be an indication that he was waiting for a fissure to form between them, one which he could anticipate because he had the advantage of more information at his disposal.

"Sherlock won't be staying with us, Gregory," Mycroft sighed resignedly, setting his cup down, folding his hands together, steepling the fingers, and pressing them to his lips.

Greg had had enough of this childishness. Now is not the bloody time, "What are you on about? Of course he is. Where the hell else is he going to stay?"

"I'm not staying anywhere, presently," Sherlock stated clinically, like he was commenting on the color of your eyes, the state of the weather, the answer to two plus two, recounting dull, boring, meaningless information, instead of dropping a bombshell that Greg found completely ridiculous and left him checking his hearing because, surely, he had not heard him correctly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I won't be staying. I've only remained in London this long in order to tie up some loose ends. I will be leaving in the morning."

Greg had had it. This was enough, the end, he was putting his foot down, "Sherlock Holmes you are not going anywhere. You just came back and you are not leaving," he looked over at Mycroft pleading for support, but the elder Holmes just took a deep breath and let it out slowly, full of regret.

"Back me up," Greg urged through gritted teeth.

"He has to leave, Gregory," his partner said, slowly, clearly, and deliberately, "Moriarty has a vast network, and you are at risk until such time as it is brought down."

"And Sherlock's not? Going after them by himself? Bullocks and you know it. Have one of your minions do it. You run the bloody government for Christ's sake, My, delegate!"

"No," Sherlock stated coldly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation or admiration, Greg could not discern, "I offered my humble services, but Sherlock is taking a personal interest in this particular case."

That was true enough, Sherlock's jaw was set and his eyes were devoid of emotion. Greg was legitimately frightened. We cannot let him go gallivanting off to God knows where like this. Especially not after we just got him back. Greg made a decisive tactical move at this juncture.

"What about me then? You think I'll be okay with you just hopping about the world, getting into dangerous situations, putting yourself at risk?" Sherlock spared him a scathing look, which conveyed effectively the idea that "I do that anyway, as you well know." Greg frowned, but his tone was a bit pleading, "Well then, what about John? You're just going to leave him here?"

Sherlock sniffed perceptibly, and looked away. Bull's eye, Greg thought, and he pressed his advantage. "He's a right mess, and you know it. You're just going to let him go on like that? That's your plan?"

"No. My plan is to make sure you are both safe, and in order to do that I will have to take down every last one of Moriarty's henchmen," he paused and there was such hostility and disgust radiating from him that Greg was quite glad he had never worked for Jim Moriarty. Sherlock stared back at Greg, and the sadness that lingered beneath his palpable desire to destroy every remaining trace of Moriarty was visible in his eyes, "You will look after John. He will be fine."

Sherlock abruptly set down his tea cup, got up, and left the room before Greg could even say another word. The DI pressed his lips together into a hard line to keep from screaming.

"He will be perfectly fine," Mycroft said, but Greg didn't believe him and he was relatively sure that Mycroft didn't believe himself either. His face was highly concerned.

Greg rubbed his eyes tiredly, "Did you even see him? He's a loose cannon right now. My, you know what he's like," Greg regarded him pointedly, "you really think he's going to be fine going off into some kind of insane mission by himself while he's like this?"

Mycroft tilted his head and considered Greg's tired and anxious face closely, "Sometimes, there is honor in revenge. Sometimes it is a warranted course of action. Besides, Gregory, do you honestly believe that I would allow him to go off by himself? He will be closely monitored the entire time." The phrase "until he shakes his tail and wanders off into dangerous territory completely alone and in a sadistic and vulnerable mental state, willing to take risks that he wouldn't in other circumstances" hung in the air between them.

"We just got him back, My," Greg was too exhausted and anxious to even care that he was meant to be angry with Mycroft. There spatial proximity was being defined by the latter sentiment. There was a clear distance between them right now, a demarcation born of disappointment and displeasure. Mycroft wanted to comfort with touch, and, though Greg desperately wanted and needed that reassurance, he was not ready for it at all. In some ways it made this all the worse, they couldn't seek solace in the way to which they were accustomed. They were divided by too much hurt. "I cannot deal with this again."

"I shall do everything in my power to prevent that, Gregory," Mycroft said earnestly leaning forward in solicitation, "But I believe that we shall have to hope that this business with Moriarty concludes in short order. Sherlock is quite stubborn."

"Oh, I know…" Greg laughed shortly, humorlessly, and Mycroft appeared stricken, knowing what the DI was thinking: This is all far from bloody over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 6. I can't believe that we've come this far. What did you think? Please, review if you can. They make me happy and encourage me to keep writing!


	7. Departures

Sherlock had disappeared presumably to his room, and Mycroft went to bed soon after. He asked Greg to join him, but the DI declined his request with his face buried in his hands to avoid seeing the disheartened expression on the other man's face. Greg was exhausted but too overwhelmed to sleep and, quite frankly, he did not want to be around Mycroft right now. He'd kip on the sofa if necessary. That's presuming that I can actually sleep at all, which isn't bloody likely.

Greg had recently suffered a bout of insomnia brought on by grief, which was now exacerbated by stress and anxiety. He continued sitting on the sofa long after Mycroft and Sherlock departed, just staring into space, thinking. At some point he got up and wandered Mycroft's study aimlessly, running his hand over the desk, the bookshelves, the statue in the corner, anchoring himself to the present moment with the tactile sensations beneath his calloused fingertips: polished wood, leather bindings, cold marble. How did it come to this? When did it come to this?

He ambled through the quiet flat. He doubted that Mycroft was asleep, but he didn't want to brave the bedroom to check, though he did linger on the threshold for several moments before moving on. Sherlock rarely slept, and Greg stood outside his door too, before walking away. Sherlock had been behaving out of character, and the DI wasn't sure if that included divergent sleep patterns. Greg didn't know that he had it within him to have a conversation with the recently resurrected at this point. His mind was a tangled web of joy, guilt, anger, and confusion.

Greg ended up in the kitchen without quite knowing how he'd arrived there. He made some coffee and sat down at the table, hunched over his cup. Everything was still and calm. Nothing went bump in the night. The silence was soothing in its way. Greg placed his head down on the table for a moment, just a moment, and he closed his eyes against the burning sensation of too much: Sherlock dying and coming back against all odds, Greg's relief, his happiness, his guilt, his grief, the betrayal, the confusion, uncertainty, and anger. He just wanted to block it all out for a moment, feel nothing at all.

When his eyelids fluttered open, there was a grey pre-dawn light streaming through the window. Greg blinked blearily and lifted his head when he heard the thunk of something being placed on the wooden surface near his nose. Sherlock was leaning back against the counter, holding a mug of coffee. The sound that Greg had heard was the younger man placing a matching cup of steaming liquid for him.

"Good morning," Sherlock said innocently.

"Morning," The DI responded dazedly. It was a shock to have Sherlock in the kitchen making coffee after having so forcefully resigned himself to never seeing Sherlock anywhere but photographs and his memories.

The DI sipped the beverage cautiously. It was hot and strong and prepared the way that he preferred. He sighed after the first swallow of caffeine hit his bloodstream, fortifying his body and his mind.

"I don't suppose there's anything that I can say that'll make you stay?" Greg broached the subject directly after a few minutes' silence.

"No." Sherlock replied simply with furrowed brows.

"Right then," Greg had had some time to reflect last night and there were things that needed to be said, "Sherlock I thought that you were dead...That you killed yourself."

Greg held the cup between his two hands, leaning on the table with his elbows and giving Sherlock the most serious and earnest expression he could manage. This was important, and if Sherlock was going to go off to points unknown to get himself into all sorts of trouble without anyone to have his back (bloody idiot and his bloody stupid "alone protects me" shite) while he was in a clearly fragile condition, Greg needed to say some things.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said tersely, "I am aware."

"Well, I blamed myself, all right?" the older man (who felt every single one of his years weighing upon him) stated firmly, "I thought I helped to drive you to it. I—I'm, Sherlock, I'm sorry for whatever part I played…I didn't mean to betray you. I would never do that on purpose. And I—I never believed what they said about you, never doubted you—as far as I'm concerned—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted, considering him seriously and with remarkably little condescension (at least for Sherlock), "Don't be an idiot. This was not your doing. As even you can see, I am clearly fine."

"Ha, not bloody likely. Sherlock, I'm serious here."

"I know."

"No, you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't be about to do what you're planning. Which, by the way, is a totally bollocks idea and I—"

"Yes, you've made your position quite clear."

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee in a not so subtle attempt to stymie this particular lecture. His expression had not changed in the slightest since the beginning of the conversation, and Greg slammed his hand down on the table to emphasize that he was not yet finished here.

"I was devastated because I bleeding love you like you were my own, more so even, and spent two weeks thinking that you'd killed yourself and I was mostly to blame for it," he paused, "I get that you've got your bloody stubborn mind set on this stupid mission, and I can't stop you, but you listen to me, and you listen bloody close: you be careful. Because I swear to God, if you come home in a body bag, I will never forgive you…or myself. And I will not be able to handle it. I just won't."

Sherlock spent several seconds just staring at Greg. The DI rather hoped that the impassive expression was a cover for a serious contemplation of his words, which was all that Greg could really hope for given the circumstances and his audience.

"I shall take the utmost care," he promised, sincere to the point of sarcasm, and Greg didn't quite believe him. Sherlock seemed volatile. He was quiet, and subdued, but it was as if the filter that he kept present, the one that made him follow the rules that mere mortals were expected to (when it suited him), was gone. Moriarty had taken much from Sherlock, had placed him in a situation where his friends, his family, his reputation, his profession, his life were all in tatters, and Greg was under the very strong impression that Sherlock was not going to be following any man's rules but his own for the time being. It was a vaguely unsettling notion and it was further emphasized by the cold empty look in his eyes. Mycroft made laws for other people to follow (he considered himself above all of them) and Sherlock played along with them (to a degree, when he felt like it, or it was convenient) because it added a more challenging aspect to the game. Greg knew that it was a voluntary choice on his part because really, who could stop him if he got something into his head. Now, that desire to play along was gone, thrown out the window (or perhaps off the top of a certain hospital) in favor of a more pragmatic approach governed entirely by his own sense of right and wrong.

"I'm serious, Sherlock, be careful," Greg was trying very hard to get Sherlock to take him seriously and he hoped that wherever the consulting detective had gone, he was still reachable in this appeal.

Mycroft walked into the kitchen at that precise moment, like Sherlock fully dressed in a crisp suit (Greg was still wearing his jeans and shirt from the day before).

He surveyed Greg's tired face and worried countenance and Sherlock's cold distant stare. The young man was already working mentally on this latest, most important case and it was taking him into a darker portion of himself. If Mycroft were to be completely honest, it worried him just as much (if not more than) it worried Greg.

"Good morning, boys," he said, picking up the newspaper, pouring himself a cup of tea, and sitting at his customary place at the head of the table.

"Sherlock, your ride will be here momentarily."

"So soon?" Greg said quickly.

"I've already told you, I am not taking one of your cars," Sherlock spat narrowing his eyes considerably.

"Oh for heaven's sake, how else were you planning on travelling, by foot?" Mycroft's brows grazed his hairline.

"I am capable of making my own way—"

"Take the car, Sherlock," Greg said quickly, cutting off the argument before it could escalate, "I get that you don't want us following you, but I will personally feel better if you at least start off with some back up. Besides," he sighed, "we all know that you'll shake whatever security detail Mycroft assigns to you as soon as you like with no trouble at all."

Mycroft was torn between being impressed by Greg's diplomatic skills, annoyed and proud of the fact that Sherlock really would be able to evade his team with no effort, and concerned that he really had no control over this situation at all. Sherlock was mostly expressionless, but a line had appeared between his brows.

"Very well."

The three men sat in silence for a few moments more.

"How long will you be gone?" Greg asked and he and Mycroft both looked at Sherlock. The former was open with his anxiety; the latter tried to conceal it but failed miserably.

"I don't know."

"Right," Greg said and he felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as the moment of farewell approached rapidly. I don't think it's going to go away any time soon either. He made a mental note to stock up on antacids and maybe finally start using those meditation tapes he had bought a few years ago. "Well, keep in touch as much as possible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded briefly.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft said warningly.

"Yes, fine," the consulting detective conceded. Mycroft's phone vibrated and he glanced at it before folding the paper he'd been holding (though not reading) and slowly rising to his feet. Greg jumped out of his chair far more quickly than his tired aching joints would have liked.

"It's time to go."

Sherlock donned his scarf and looked at them both. Fuck it, Greg thought. He walked across the kitchen and took the boy into his arms.

"Take care, all right?" he said gruffly, squeezing the boy in a tight embrace, "Come back in one piece."

Sherlock nodded, Greg felt the sharp chin jab his shoulder, "Greg," Sherlock said, and it was as signal for the DI to listen very carefully to whatever was about to be whispered, "Look in on John, would you?" There was a pleading note to the voice, and this was as human as Sherlock had sounded since he had come back, perhaps ever. For some reason, this appeal, genuine, and heart felt, and concerned made Greg want to cry: for John, for Sherlock, for himself, for the fact that this was a bloody horrible way for any of them to live.

The DI nodded assertively. He knew that the main reason that Sherlock had let him in on this great secret was so that he would be better able to care for John, "Course I will. I'll look after him. Don't you worry. Right?" Greg gave the consulting detective one final squeeze and then pulled back clearing his throat purposefully.

The Holmes brothers considered each other.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

Idiots, thought Greg, rolling his eyes at their foolishness. Now is not the time for this nonsense.

"Do behave yourself," by which, of course, Mycroft meant: I love you; be careful; if anyone harms you, I will kill them myself.

"Behave yourself," Sherlock said, by which he meant: I am currently operating on self-destruct and the likelihood of involving myself in a dangerous situation has increased dramatically. You're welcome to kill whomever you like in response to that, just stay out of my way.

Nothing like a simple relationship in this family, Greg mused as he interpreted the unspoken conversation.

The three of them walked to the door together, then Mycroft and Greg watched Sherlock sweep out, leaving the two of them alone.

"So," Mycroft said.

"So," Greg replied.

"Well you know that he is alive. You understand why."

"Yeah," neither of them was facing the other. Instead, they continued staring at the closed door, the finality of it and the uncertainty of it. There was only a foot of space between them but it might as well have been an oceanic trench; the tension was palpable, despite their nonchalant voices.

"I know that you are upset," Mycroft clasped his hands before him, "It is understandable, given the circumstances."

"Glad you think so," Greg turned to face the carefully, studiously composed man beside him.

"That isn't want I meant."

"I know it isn't," the DI admitted.

"There was a sniper aiming a gun at your head, Gregory," Mycroft stared at him pointedly, willing him to understand, and Greg was trying to, honestly he was, "What would you have had me do? You had to believe this falsehood in order to be kept alive."

"Then why tell me now?"

Mycroft spoke candidly, "Because I couldn't watch you suffer anymore."

Greg inhaled sharply and realized that Mycroft's devastation may not have been completely faked. Regardless of the circumstances, he was clearly strained, and Greg was conflicted. Part of him wanted to take Mycroft into his arms, part of him wanted to scream at him until he was hoarse.

"But you could do it for the past two weeks? That was all right?"

"What do you want from me, Gregory? I do not regret it. It was the only way to keep you alive. I would rather you be hurting but breathing than the alternative."

Mycroft held Greg's gaze before continuing, "You know that if I could have I would have informed you. I did not want to continue lying to you by any means….I needed you to know. For you, for myself, and for Sherlock. For John as well."

Greg shifted tactics, "This isn't going to go well," ne nodded his head towards the closed door.

Mycroft sighed, "I know. But we can't very well lock him up—"

"We bloody should've." The fact that Greg was advocating this course of action instead of Mycroft was a true mark of how desperate the situation had become.

"Whatever we would have done, he would have gone his own way in any case, Gregory, you know what he is like. Sherlock is determined to do this his own way," Mycroft was firm but his face told Greg that he was displeased with his brother's errand and deeply troubled by his inability to affect the outcome.

"He's going down a dark path, Mycroft."

"I know."

This situation was barely tolerable. It was unconscionable. Greg's mind raced into all the horrible fates that could potentially await Sherlock in his current state. It was so odd. The DI had gone, in less than twenty four hours, from a gaping hole to an obsessive level of worry and concern.

"We just got him back…" Mycroft didn't reply to Greg's blatant appeal for comfort. He had none to give, he was just as anxious if not more so. The past few weeks had demonstrated to his elder brother, quite clearly, that Sherlock was highly volatile. However, Mycroft seemed determined not to lie or give any type of false comfort. One-hundred percent honesty, Greg reflected, bemoaning his internal hypocrisy, A little white lie might be useful right about now.

"I am glad that you told me," Greg admitted, "I'm still angry with you, mind. I'm bloody furious, actually. I can understand why you did it. But we're in this together you and me and Sherlock too. Don't ever do that again."

Mycroft smiled tightly, he would accept this for now. He would accept anything right now.

"What do we do, then?" Greg asked

"We wait. I'll keep an eye on him as best as I can. Sherlock will, undoubtedly, make that as difficult as possible," Mycroft tried for a conspiratorial grin, but it didn't reach is eyes and it was not returned. There was a grim atmosphere in the air, "Beyond that, we continue our lives as best we can. We maintain the illusion that he is dead. The world must believe it…" he hesitated, paused, as if he knew that what was coming next would be highly unpalatable, which, given the amount of lies, danger, betrayal, tension, grief, and misery, was saying quite a lot, "We look after John."

"We ought to tell him."

Mycroft fixed Greg with a stern glare, "We can't. John is the primary target. They expect Sherlock to contact him and they will know if he does. John wouldn't be able to hide it. Do you want to have his death on your hands?"

"He might die if we don't tell him," Greg asserted.

"Which is why we will look after him to make sure that eventuality is not realized."

"I don't like this one bit," Greg relented.

"Nor do I," Mycroft confessed, "But it is necessary."

"I wish it bloody wasn't," Greg ran a hand over his face, and Mycroft placed his on Greg's arm, a gesture of peace, of aid, of apology.

"It's only for a short while," he said.

But Greg knew that the likelihood of this ending quickly was slim indeed. He nodded tightly, disengaged his arm, and walked away, feeling like a hypocrite and a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 7! I am sorry for the delay in posting. This week has been beyond busy, but my posting schedule should normalize next week. What did you think of this chapter? More to come soon.


	8. Lies

John is a bloody mess, was Greg's first thought when he saw the ex-army doctor turned blogger-detective, turned grieving bloody widower for the first time after Sherlock left on his "mission." This was quickly followed by his second thought: This is bloody terrible.

He hadn't wanted to see John; couldn't stomach it really. Thought of every excuse he could come up with and attempted to justify avoidance as much as he could. Each one fell flat. His conscience, the honorable man, who knew right from wrong, always looked out for the underdog, and tried to help when he could, had recoiled and then sprung back with a stern glare and some harsh rebuttals: Gregory Lestrade, that man bloody needs you and you are going to help him or so help me…Funny how the voice sounded a bit like his mum. You promised Sherlock that you'd look out for him! You promised John. You promised yourself. Now, get up off your arse and keep your bloody word.

He didn't want to mention to the voice that going to see John would involve a fair bit of lying and evasion. He could barely stand the guilt and he hadn't even done anything yet. Well unless you count not calling John the second that I found out Sherlock was alive. Greg did count that.

When Greg told Mycroft where he was going, the man had looked at him with a saddened expression, and gripped his tea cup tightly (to restrain himself from getting up and pulling Greg into his arms, no doubt). If he didn't know any better, Greg would have thought that Mycroft looked riddled with guilt for having placed his partner in such an impossible and horribly painful situation. Don't be an idiot, the voice admonished again, hands on hips, of course he feels guilty. He's been feeling nothing but remorse for the past two weeks and bit before, and, if you can't see that, you're a bloody idiot. Of course he doesn't want to put you in this spot—

Shut up! Jesus bleeding Christ. Greg countered, shaking his head and hoping that would clear his thoughts. If things weren't already bad enough, now I'm being told off in my own bleeding mind.

He came back to himself and focused on Mycroft, who was clearly taking great pains to remain seated in a mildly composed attitude. Must be bloody exhausting to keep it up. Mycroft may have lied to him, but he had also born his grief, taken care of him, dealt with his own anxiety about Sherlock alone, planned his brother's funeral, and attempted to look after John (with absolutely no success). He had also taken a fair bit of (undeserved) blame about the circumstances of Sherlock's demise from several corners, and his own personal (now increased by Greg's damning) guilt over Sherlock's real situation and the effort necessary to maintain it.

Greg honestly wasn't sure how to balance all of these things. He was mildly amazed that Mycroft was still standing, but then, Mycroft always did have the ability to surprise him, and, in this case, he shouldn't have expected anything less. The DI had only been brought to terms with what was going on twenty-four hours ago and already he was a jittery, jumpy, manic mess. How the bloody hell does he do this? Greg was cleanly torn between seeking and giving comfort in any way available to the two of them and berating Mycroft for not only helping to engineer this system but including him in it. Though he knew the truth, Greg was now required to actively participate in propagating the lie, not least, to someone that he genuinely liked, cared for, and was suffering tremendously at the moment. Did Mycroft feel like this every bloody day? Greg wanted to hug him, but refrained forcibly.

"Going to see John?" Mycroft inquired delicately.

"Yeah, suppose so," Greg squared his shoulders and scuffed his foot on the floor, trying to dispel the nervous energy.

"It shan't be easy," Mycroft said, scanning Greg's face, noticing and cataloguing all of the added wrinkles, the dark circles that blossomed like bruises beneath his eyes, the more rapidly greying hair, undoubtedly to charge himself with each at a later time.

"And don't I bleeding know it," Greg sighed, ruffling his hair with his left hand (a nervous tic that Mycroft usually found endearing and that had become downright poignant given their current standing and situation. He, of course, didn't not mention this, presently.) Analyzing the situation, in a typically Holmesian way, he recognized that pushing Greg in any direction would be problematic at the least. Instead, Mycroft held his place, stood his ground, vowed to steer Greg through these troubled waters, steer the two of them through, as best he could. Greg just continued mussing his hair, unsure of what to think, knowing that going to see John was the right thing to do and hating himself all the more for not wanting to go.

"Gregory, you must remember—"

"I bloody know, Mycroft," he rumbled, "doesn't mean I have to like it."

"But you will—?"

Greg looked like a man about to sacrifice something epic, something valuable, important, integral to his character. Mycroft was seized with the sudden, impulsive desire to tell him to stop, that it wasn't necessary, but he couldn't.

"I will," the DI said as if it were costing him a great deal, "I'll lie to John and I'll play pretend, but it won't bloody go well, and he'll hate me for it when he finds out." Neither entertained the possibility of the "if" being used. They had reached a tacit agreement between themselves that if things were to go wrong with Sherlock's mission, John was not to know that Sherlock had survived the fall. They had agreed that it would be far too cruel to the doctor to reveal that Sherlock had survived only to die later. If John doesn't break before then, Greg mused bitterly, that will be what finally does him in. You don't come back from something like that. None of us bloody would. He steadfastly tried to avoid the part he was playing in John's continued unraveling.

"Do you hate me?" Mycroft asked, so softly it might have been a whisper, and, though the tones were hushed, and the voice was clipped and clear, there was a lingering uncertainty beneath the question that squeezed Greg's heart painfully and twisted.

"No," he answered, emphatically, reflexively, without thinking. He had responded so quickly that he had to take a moment to reflect on whether he had told the truth or lied out of some misguided attempt to spare Mycroft any sort of pain. His partner looked surprised. Does he really think that I hate him? Greg questioned himself almost disbelievingly.

"I don't hate you, Mycroft," he admitted, still keeping his distance, and staring right into Mycroft's eyes, "I don't hate you. I'm not particularly chuffed with you either..."

Mycroft considered his sincerity and the barest ghost of a smile flitted across his face, "Well that is something."

"I suppose," Greg acknowledged.

"Give my regards to Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, by which he meant please, I know this is difficult, but remember why you're doing it. It won't make it any easier, but it might help you sleep at night.

"I will, though I doubt he'll appreciate them."

Mycroft contemplated that for a moment, and then said, seriously, "No, I don't suppose he will. He seemed positively horrified when I stopped by to inquire over his health."

Greg rolled his eyes and felt, for the briefest moment that they had been transported back in time before all of this had happened, when bantering about Sherlock and John, surveillance, and life was simple and easy and natural between them, "Did your 'inquiry' involve breaking and entering?"

Mycroft surveyed Greg in a suggestive way, "Is it really breaking and entering if you own the nation and you've been charged with the care of your younger brother's…John?"

"That's what I thought," the DI muttered, "I'll be back late," Greg wanted to be back as early and as quickly as possible, but doubted that was feasible.

"Good luck," Mycroft said earnestly.

Greg was nervous approaching John's flat. He felt like he might be about to suffer a panic attack and this was a man who had been under fire (literally and figuratively) multiple times in his life. His palms were sweaty and so was his forehead. His breaths were short, and he was literally shaking. He had to stop two streets from 221B in order to catch his breath, calm down, and find his resolve again. John needs you, mate, he scolded, so go be there. Even if it means feeding him lies that will only make things worse, he added with disgust and resignation. Greg was beginning to understand that he ought to just resolve himself to these misgivings.

He finally felt that he was composed enough to see the blogger. It was with squared shoulders and a raised chin that he entered the flat.

John was making tea and he poured a cup for Greg as well. The two sat in what, for Greg, was quite possibly the most painful and awkward silence humanly possible. A large part of him was screaming, tell him and damn the consequences. It's the right thing to do. Just TELL HIM! The rational portion counseled against this, kept his mouth glued shut, and his jaws locked together so tightly that it hurt in order to prevent any uncontrolled outburst or revelations.

"I visited his—the, ah, grave yesterday," John said quietly, gazing at his tea rather than Greg's face, and the DI gripped his mug with such ferocity that it was a wonder that it didn't shatter to pieces.

"Did you?" he asked in what he hoped was a neutral tone (Tell him it's empty. There's nothing to mourn. Sherlock is ALIVE!).

John nodded almost imperceptibly. Both men were avoiding speech, John to keep from breaking down, Greg to keep from eliminating John's reason for tears. Just looking at the blogger was killing him. John was hurting, he was aching, he was experiencing a type of agony that Greg had felt and knew well. It was sharp and burning. It left you raw and bloody and empty. As soon as you thought you might be starting to heal, you were hit with a fresh wave of pain even more powerful than the last, a wave that pulled you under, drowning in a sea of depression, guilt, grief, and pain, so strong that you could barely bring yourself to fight the tide. Greg could see that look on John's face. He could wipe it away, clean it clear off, he had the power to do so, but he didn't. He couldn't. It was John's life at stake (though what type of life you could call this, he didn't know), it was Sherlock's, and his own, and Mycroft's. It was risky, dangerous, and it was down to him. Though it cost him a great deal, he chose not to say a word. Instead, he watched John suffer; knowing that he could put a stop to it and refraining for the sake of the "greater bloody good." He hated himself for his hypocrisy. He would take this guilt as his punishment, dwell on it and bring it out, and worry it, because he deserved no less.

"I ah thought," John cleared his throat and clenched and unclenched his hand reflexively, licked his lips, blinked rapidly, "um, I ah thought that I—I saw him."

Oh fuck, Greg's mind worked quickly, did he see him? Or was this just his grief laced mind playing tricks? Where was Sherlock yesterday afternoon? Had he gone to the cemetery, knowing that John would be there, desperate for one last glimpse of him before heading off on a case from which he might not return? To say a silent goodbye that the blogger wouldn't be able to hear? To take the image of John devastated, crushed, and mourning with him when he went, as a reminder of why he needed to succeed, as a hope to come home, as a way to punish himself for the condition in which he'd left John? Bloody fucking hell. Greg felt torn up inside, worrying over both of them, dying because of how intensely bloody dangerous that would have been for Sherlock, about how good of a man his boy had become and of how much he must love John if he was willing to take such a stupid risk, just the latest in a long bloody line of stupid.

"Did you?" he hoped that his own voice was steady because his mental voice was becoming quite squeaky in its extremity.

John nodded, "Just my bloody imagination." He sounded so sad, so dismissive, and Greg wanted to draw him up, take him by the shoulders, and scream in his face that it most likely wasn't his imagination because Sherlock was an idiot and it was all going to be bloody fine. Instead he bowed his head mournfully and tried to think of how he would have responded if John had said this two days ago, "I know, John."

John nodded and the two sat for a bit just quietly sharing space, each dealing with their own personal internal hell. When Greg left an hour later, he was relatively sure that staying silent had been one of the most challenging things that he had ever had to do and he was both proud of and disgusted with himself for having succeeded. Beat yourself up once you're far away from here, he reminded himself. It wouldn't do to let something slip, though his eyes were shooting messages of hope to John with such dogged clarity that Greg was sure they might soon pop out of his head with the strain.

It was only once he had clapped John on the shoulder, shut the door firmly behind himself, and nearly collapsed when he reached the street, that he allowed himself to appreciate the way that John's military stoicism seemed to have asserted itself. Greg couldn't decide if this was good, because it meant that John was pulling himself together, or bad, because he was getting better at hiding the fissures and pain from the DI, who would not be aware of the extent of his troubles until they exploded in a truly gruesome way. He vowed to keep an even closer eye on John, no matter how exhausting, devastating, or generally difficult it was. Caring for John was an extension of caring for Sherlock, so closely were the two men linked for Greg, and he would gladly do both. He thought long and hard about this as he made his way home, and, when he reached the flat, he collapsed on the nearest sofa in a heap of exhaustion. Mycroft looked up from the book he was reading.

"How was it?"

"Bloody awful," Greg groaned.

"I expected as much."

"How did you do it?" Greg asked, genuinely puzzled by the amount of effort it took to control his impulse to confess everything.

Mycroft considered him seriously, "I knew the stakes."

Greg closed his eyes; he knew the stakes too, "Mycroft I—"

But the other man just shook his head. He spread a blanket across Greg and looked down on him softly, brushing his hand over the DI's silver hair gently. It had been far too long since Greg had had Mycroft's skin on his own, and his eyes closed instinctively at the contact, "Hush, Gregory," the elder Holmes said softly, "sleep now, we'll talk in the morning."

Greg, who hadn't slept properly in weeks, felt his eyes weighed down, closing slowly, but he noticed, as he began to drift off, that Mycroft didn't leave the room to go to bed. No, he seated himself across from Greg, and settled himself in, fingers pressed to his mouth, watching over Greg, watching over all of them, yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. End of term has been crazy. More to come quite soon.


	9. Waiting

Waiting for news of Sherlock was, in some ways, almost worse than having to let him go. Greg was on edge, lost a great deal of sleep, jumped at sudden noises, left his mobile phone on at all times, and reacted so strongly to any incoming message that he had broken several valuables, spilled quite a few scalding hot beverages on himself, and frankly startled the people around him in his attempts to answer as quickly as possible. The messages, calls, and texts were never from Sherlock, not a single one. They were dull, unimportant, trivial, boring. They did not come bearing the information that Greg so desperately needed.

He had spent two weeks trying to reconcile himself to Sherlock's death. He had now, officially, spent the same amount of time knowing that he was alive. All things considered, the past two weeks had been equally unbearable, but in a completely different way. This was due to the fact that Greg wasn't sure that the consulting detective was still alive. He tried to remind himself that if something had happened, Mycroft would know. Mycroft always knew. Greg also attempted to focus on his own personal belief that, since the whole debacle with the pseudo-death and lying, Mycroft was not likely to withhold critical information about anything from Greg right now, not without dire consequences.

The trouble was that Mycroft hadn't heard anything. Not a bloody word. This only made Greg more concerned. If Mycroft hadn't heard news, was it because there was no news to be had or because there was no longer a Sherlock to give it? He spent every day wondering if Sherlock was off somewhere, under some assumed alias with some absurd and convincing disguise. Was he killing people? Had he fallen in a back alley somewhere far away? Turned back to cocaine as a coping mechanism? Was he alone, a corpse, truly gone this time, with no one to mourn him, like so many of the bodies that he himself had deduced? Greg had nightmare visions of all of these possibilities every night (when and if he finally managed to fall asleep). It would have been better if he and Mycroft were sharing a bed. He could have turned and folded himself into a comforting embrace, and they could have chased the shadows away for each other, taking and receiving what they both so badly needed. Then maybe Greg would be at peace, and then maybe he would be able to rest for at least a moment. Unfortunately, Greg was sleeping (if you could call it that) in the guest room, and Mycroft in their bedroom (although, to be fair, it seemed that Mycroft actually passed his evenings in his study, and, whether he slept on the sofa there or spent the night working, Greg didn't know or dare to ask). They were both miserable and anxious to the point of distraction.

When Greg had asked when they should expect news, Mycroft had replied tersely, "A short while, I expect."

"A short while" was an unfortunately loosely defined period of time in which stress and anxiety came in ebbs and flows. It created a state of limbo and tension continued within the house. Greg both desperately craved and viciously dreaded receiving an update from Mycroft (to whom it would undoubtedly come) when and if it came. To make matters worse, the two of them continued to tiptoe around one another in endless circles that made Greg's head and heart ache in equal measure. He always advocated practical solutions but he couldn't see one here. Probably, because there isn't one, he admonished regretfully. His sense of honor, justice, loneliness, and concern was so overwhelming that it nearly stifled him every day.

His every conversation with Mycroft was riddled with unease, and this only increased as time passed. The thing which unified them was the concern they felt for Sherlock and their rather strong desire to fix things between themselves, and their absolute inability to do so. Mycroft continually made overtures towards Greg: giving him space, preparing his favorite foods, leaving exceptionally thoughtful gifts that Greg did not particularly want or need. He set them aside with a sigh in the growing pile of ties, football tickets, spa certificates, rare cookbooks, a new apron, and an access pass to several facilities to which he should definitely not be admitted. He interpreted these tokens as gestures of trust, apologies, and attempts to distract Greg from the strain, the pain, and the constant worry. None worked, not really. Isn't that just Mycroft? Greg mused, Extravagant gestures are what he does. Sometimes though, it was the simple things that mattered the most, that helped the most, and, unfortunately, circumstances were such that these overtures were impossible.

Greg had been cooking a lot lately, baking mostly. It was time consuming, required his attention, and (most importantly) involved plenty of chopping and dicing to work out his frustration. He didn't acknowledge that everything that he was making was meant for someone he loved. The chocolate cake on Monday had been for Mycroft, the baklava on Tuesday for Sherlock, the strawberry jam tarts today were for John, though Mycroft would enjoy them as well. Perhaps this was Greg's offer, his way of trying to take care of everyone in the only way that he presently could. It was certainly a viable means of distracting himself from the present situation.

He had also gone back to the Yard this week. He couldn't just wait for news. He thought it might be hard to face everyone, to lie to the people he saw, but he was so overwrought, anxious, and generally despondent, that people mistook his concern for Sherlock and his tension at home for grief. They knew that he was close with consulting detective (probably not how close, though Moffat at the front desk suspected, having seen Greg and Mycroft together multiple times after hours). He was given sympathetic glances, short pats on the shoulder, accompanied by a gruffly spoken, "I'm sorry mate" or "How're you doing?" or "If there's anything you need..." Greg avoided nearly all of them. Donovan and Anderson gave him a wide berth, perhaps inferring (as if they're bloody capable!) from Greg's face that any attempt to speak with him might result in their immediate, painful, and completely remorseless strangulation. Greg rather funneled his guilt and hostility towards them; they were an easy target.

The most difficult thing remained visiting John, whose grief was slightly different every day. He appeared stoic now, more stable, but that somehow made Greg more concerned. He understood really. Sometimes things became too much, and you just needed to shut down, close it off, or else you would be dragged into a pit of despair. John was a soldier and he was doctor and he knew quite well how to put on a mask in the in the face of unbearable situations, despair, loss, and devastation. Greg understood too that for John, losing Sherlock was not like anything else. More and more, John refused to mention Sherlock at all, couldn't even say his name. He must be tortured in the flat by the bloody ghosts. Sometimes he tried to talk about other things, sometimes Greg forced him to, and sometimes they didn't speak at all. Greg had offered him a place to stay if he wanted to get away, but John continued to refuse. They sustained this ritual every evening without fail, though the slight variations (what type of food Greg tried to force John to eat, what they talked about, what they didn't, how exhausted John appeared, which increased every day) made the evening torture somewhat surprising.

Greg threw himself into these activities: cooking, working, taking care of John, in an attempt to deal with the precarious circumstances with Sherlock: the lack of news, the incessant worry, the tension.

That was the state of affairs when Greg came home from a particularly painful dinner with John, who had refused to eat, rebuffed all attempts to talk about anything other than the weather, and looked so horribly bereft that Greg felt the strain of his own silence more powerfully than ever. He came home with a headache and a heavy heart.

"My," he called, as he crossed the threshold, tossing his coat over the nearest chair, "I really hope you've got something a bit stronger than tea because I am bloody—" but he pulled up short at the sight that waited for him when he walked into Mycroft's study. The room held not one but two Holmes', both of whom turned immediately and in tandem to face Greg whose gormlessly shocked face was quickly supplanted with a cheek splitting grin. He crossed the room, pulled Sherlock to his feet, and into a hug before anyone could react.

"Lestrade," Sherlock protested.

"Shut up, you prat," Greg said, and Mycroft laughed, "It's bloody good to see you alive, but we've got to stop these near misses and such, all right? My old heart can't take it."

He pulled back and looked at Sherlock, slightly dreading what he would see when he did. Rightly so. Sherlock appeared nearly as drawn as John. He was paler (didn't think that was possible), thinner (making his jutting cheekbones and the hollows beneath them even more sharply pronounced), his hair was shaggier than was customary, and his eyes were over-bright

(and appeared larger in his increasingly emaciated face). It was a rather startling change in two weeks, though to be fair, it had been a long two weeks, and Greg had no notion what Sherlock had been doing during that time. Greg felt uneasy and he turned to shoot an inquiring glance at Mycroft, who had been watching this "tender" scene unfold, and immediately held up his hands and arched his brows in a gesture of innocence and uncertainty.

"I didn't know, Gregory."

"My arrival was something of a surprise for my omniscient brother," Sherlock stated, unable to resist the pointed attack on Mycroft's abilities, but confirming his brother's honesty. Mycroft looked slightly more relaxed by Sherlock's presence and didn't acknowledge his younger brother's verbal dart beyond a mildly good-natured eye-roll. The familiarity of the gesture made Greg grin even wider.

"Have you eaten anything?" He asked quickly, "I can make you something, or we can order in."

"No," Sherlock looked disgusted.

Now it was Greg's turn to roll his eyes, "I know you have that stupid rule about 'not eating' when you're on a case and all, but you're done now and—"

Sherlock interrupted Greg with a short and bitter guffaw that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end, "Oh, Lestrade, your faith in my abilities is touching, but I can assure you that this case is far from over." There was steely glint in Sherlock's eyes that belied the slightly stooped nature of his frame. Greg felt all the wind go right out of his sails, and Mycroft had the decency to look both shocked and upset. Least I'm not the only one bloody appalled by this lunacy.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began sternly, "You've had your fun, now I believe the time has come for you to—"

"What? Leave this to the dimwitted incompetents you have the audacity to refer to as 'professionals'?"

"There are perfectly suited to the job, besides which this outing is beginning to exact a wholly unnecessary toll on all—"

"Do you honestly believe that John's life is 'unnecessary?' That I would stop this if there were even the slightest chance that he was in danger?" Sherlock and Mycroft were squaring off, the younger was incensed, and the elder, to his credit, was attempting to control his rising temper, "Or that those idiots that cater to your every whim are actually capable of a task of this magnitude? Are you actually that stupid?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft was appealing to rationality and sanity, and Greg, who usually attempted to mitigate these arguments was wholly, completely, and unabashedly on his side, or he would be once he regained the ability to speak in light of this most recent shock to his system, who are you bloody kidding, Greg, did you really think he'd be back this quickly? I bloody hoped. Fucking stupid. "I would obviously not entrust John or Gregory's care to someone incapable; however, we are also concerned with your well-being, which, incidentally you have made increasingly difficult to monitor..." Mycroft glared reprovingly; Sherlock smirked back unabashedly and somewhat manically, which was when Greg decided to chime in.

"You could have at least had the decency to send us a bloody sodding postcard!" He fairly shouted. He didn't know who looked more shocked, Mycroft for Greg's blatant bias support falling in his favor, or Sherlock who was clearly unsettled by Greg both so clearly demonstrating his alliance (in an unfavorable direction) and raising his voice (which he hardly ever did). And if he can't deduce why I'm fucking upset, I swear to god, I will murder him myself.

"Not a bloody word for weeks, Sherlock! Weeks! No texts, no phone calls, not a bloody peep, not even to say 'just so you know, I'm not dead!' Have you any idea what that's been like?"

Sherlock just blinked at him. Mycroft looked on torn between approval and a desire to remind Greg to watch his blood pressure. Sod that.

"No, of course not. Well, I'll tell you what it's like. It's bloody awful. Neither of us" he gestured viciously back and forth between himself and Mycroft before crossing his arms and continuing his tirade, "had any clue if you were even alive or where you've been. Not an inkling. Meanwhile, I'm lying to bloody everyone, not least John," Sherlock's head jerked in response to the name, and Greg reprovingly, "Yeah, that's right, John, who is goddamn devastated and miserable and fucking broken. Not to mention your brother," Mycroft turned his attention to Greg, "who has been so bloody worried about you that I doubt that he's slept a bloody wink in the past month," Sherlock made to interrupt, but Greg was not having it, "You will let me finish. Now, we are all sodding worried about you, and you don't even have the common decency to let us know that you're alive. That is not okay."

When he had finished, there was a ringing silence. Mycroft continued gazing at Greg. Sherlock did as well with an impassive expression that was frayed slightly at the edges with something that resembled guilt (at least, that's what Greg hoped it was).

"Sherlock," Mycroft said after several moments of silence.

Sherlock glanced at his elder brother, adopting the expression of a sulky six year old who had been caught pulling a prank on a maiden aunt and must now observe the appropriate niceties.

"I apologize," he said, and his tone did hold a trace of sincerity beneath the resentment. Greg accepted it for what it was. He was increasingly becoming concerned with the way that Sherlock seemed less and less like the man he had become and more and more like the boy he had been, closed-off, indifferent, and distant. The DI did not like it one bit.

"Don't do it again, Sherlock," he said instead of giving voice to these concerns, which, judging by the expression that Mycroft wore, were shared between them. We'll talk about this later, his partner's eyes said.

"Very well," Mycroft said in a put upon voice, which he was using to convey more reluctance and thus less suspicion with his brother than he actually was experiencing, "If you insist on continuing this plan you will contact Gregory or myself once every forty-eight hours."

Sherlock glowered and made to protest, but Greg cut him off with a sharp and warning, "Sherlock!"

Mycroft continued, "That will be our arrangement, or I will 'call out the troops,' as it were. Do we understand one another?"

There was a lengthy pause and a nonverbal conversation between the Holmes' in which Sherlock was clearly thinking "I would like to see you try" and Mycroft squashed that with a very serious "Oh, do not tempt me, or we will see just how far my reach extends." After ten seconds, détente was reached, largely because Greg, once again, took Mycroft's side.

"That is the bloody agreement, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced between the two of them and gave a curt, condescending nod, "Very well," before turning on his heel and leaving the room in a clear strop. I swear his is five bloody years old sometimes.

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft interrupted his thoughts.

"You were in the right of it," the DI replied, "Where is he off to?"

Mycroft walked over to his desk, poured them both a healthy dose of brandy and handed one to Greg before gesturing vaguely, as the DI took a large swallow, "Oh, you know my brother, off to skulk somewhere, deduce something…find John Watson…"

Greg almost choked, almost, "Find John—you can't be serious. He knows how dangerous that is? What's the bloody point of all of this if he's just going to-?"

Mycroft placed a steading hand on his forearm and searched his eyes, "That's rather the point, Gregory, he does know. He is also aware of the fact that this entire operation could fall apart at the slightest provocation. I imagine, given the circumstances, it might be worth the risk."

His eyes clearly conveyed the fact that, if his and Sherlock's situations were reversed, Mycroft would do the same, forsake logic and reason and throw his carefully laid plans aside in order to even catch a glimpse of Greg. The DI felt something catch in his throat.

"My, I—" he began, but Mycroft released his arm and stepped back when Greg would have reached out.

"Besides," he continued, "it might keep him coming back."

"Do you think that he really will stay in touch?" Greg asked.

Mycroft laughed sharply, "It is hard to tell, Gregory, but I believe he might, for your sake."

"He bloody better," he did reach out to Mycroft then, and take his hand, "We can't keep this up forever."

"Oh, I doubt that it will take quite that long," the elder Holmes responded, and Greg snorted derisively.

"You know what I mean, what if-?" Mycroft placed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head sharply.

"I believe that it is my division to concern myself with those eventualities."

"It is both of ours and you know it."

Mycroft smiled; somewhere between grim determination and the agony of not only worrying but knowing that he placed Greg in a situation in which he too had to bear this burden. It's my burden too, Greg thought, I'm willing to bear it and I'd take it for you if you'd bloody let me. Mycroft seemed to understand because he leaned forward and kissed Greg, softly, carefully, very tentatively before pulling back. It had been far too long, Greg thought, he wanted more but also knew that this was not the moment.

"I'm worried," he admitted.

"As am I."

The DI squeezed Mycroft's hand.

"He'll be all right," he comforted but inside he highly doubted the veracity of his words. Mycroft understood that, but took Greg's reassurance in the spirit in which it was intended.

"I do hope so."

And when Sherlock left the next morning, looking even more gaunt and stricken than he had the previous evening, Mycroft and Greg watched him leave, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updates lately. Life has been completely insane. But I'm back, and regular posting should recommence quite soon.


	10. Summons

That was the way things continued for a time. Sherlock did uphold his bargain, whether out of guilt, a twinge of conscience, a complete unwillingness to take the time away from his mission to outwit and evade the increased surveillance of the British Government was debatable. Greg and Mycroft didn't really care. They were content with cryptic one line responses, random calls from unknown numbers, texts from (undoubtedly stolen) mobiles, and once a hideous post-card (which disappeared after they had finished looking at and decoding it, and which Greg highly suspected that Mycroft, for all of his protests against the worthlessness of sentimentality, had filed away in some hidden stronghold or other. Bloody packrat, he thought fondly).

Sherlock didn't ever stay away for very long. He came back to London every two or three weeks, unannounced, unexpected, and always welcome. The most memorable stopover so far had been when he had showed up one morning at four am. Greg knew this because he had gotten up to get a glass of water and had several years taken off of his life when Sherlock greeted him in the darkness.

He didn't stay long, and, each time he returned, he appeared worse. His eyes were larger, the circles beneath them darker, his face gaunter, hair wilder, behavior more erratic. Well, Greg furrowed his brows, considering this assessment critically. This strange disappearing act was increasingly becoming their default setting and it was therefore exceedingly difficult to explain exactly what about Sherlock's behavior qualified as erratic. Perhaps, the most unsettling aspect of Sherlock at the moment was that he wasn't behaving in a particularly frenzied way. His focus was intensely directed at two things: destroying Moriarty's network and saving John. The two were inextricably linked. Sherlock didn't want any aid in his pursuit of the former. He had willingly requested help with the latter. The trouble was he did not trust anyone with the care of John's life. No one but himself. The great Sherlock Holmes, though, no matter how unique, could not be in two places at one time. His ultimate goal left him at cross purposes with his desire to destroy Moriarty as quickly and thoroughly as possible. His mission was being stymied by his desire to make absolutely certain that John was, and would continue to be, all right. His only trusted the evidence of his own senses on this point. And he could not adequately assess the situation from half-way around the world.

"That's why he comes home," Greg said to Mycroft, as they sat together on the sofa, Mycroft magisterially gazing into the distance, and Greg hunched into a corner with his feet on Mycoft's lap. Sherlock had come back from a mysterious errand and was scheduled to depart once again, this time in the dead of night. "He doesn't trust us to make sure that John's all right."

Mycroft rested his long fingered hands on Greg's shins, caressing softly, and gazing at the DI somewhat sadly (thinking that the mistrust was not for the pair of them, but only for himself), "Of course he doesn't, Gregory."

"He ought to," Greg rumbled, and Mycroft laughed sympathetically (or incredulously, depending on your point of view).

"Gregory, with all due respect, if the situation were reversed, and I had to trust Sherlock to look after you—let's just say that I would be quite sure to periodically check up on you myself."

"You Holmes' are a possessive lot," Greg said, torn between fondness and annoyance, "but has it ever occurred to you that we might want to take care of you?"

Mycroft's face softened briefly at Greg's earnestness. They were no longer strictly speaking about Sherlock and John, "Why do you think he hasn't told John? He doesn't want him to endanger himself."

"It's bloody stupid, that's what it is," Greg glowered, remembering his most recent visit with John, "I would never, and I mean it, never forgive you for putting me through that type of hell."

Mycroft considered him seriously, "I do know that, Gregory."

"Promise me that you won't ever pull a stunt like this," Greg demanded, suddenly leaning forward and taking both of Mycroft's hands in his, "I would honestly not be able to deal with it. You might as well just kill me."

"Gregory," Mycroft touched his face gently, tracing the contours of his cheeks, and stared straight into his eyes, "I cannot promise that, of the two of us, I will not be the first to die. However," he squeezed Greg's hand tightly, "I will swear to you that I will never fake my own death and conceal it from you." Greg felt like a slight weight had been lifted from his stomach, it was strangely relieving; Mycroft, however, seemed troubled, "I would not do such a thing after watching the consequences unfold." Greg suddenly felt the weight of Mycroft's guilt and responsibility take up the space that his own fear had occupied mere moments before. It was a heavy burden, and he reacted instinctively, urged on by the ache in his heart. He pulled Mycroft in to his chest, folding the man against him, and placing a kiss on his head." Mycroft gripped Greg's arms tightly, as if so thankful to find himself here again, that he was unwilling to let go or be removed from the haven of Greg's arms. Here, he need not be the elder brother or the British Government or the righter of wrongs or the protector of the family. He need only be Greg's My, and that was enough.

"Thank you," Greg whispered sincerely.

"I love you," Mycroft whispered back.

It couldn't be helping Sherlock's condition to see John so torn apart. It must be torture to watch. It was hard enough for Greg, and Greg wasn't dealing with unrequited feelings and being forced to remain tantalizingly out of sight and out of reach. The DI also was not the direct cause of John's grief, just the facilitator of it. Greg never said as much to Sherlock. He had come quite close many, many times, but even as the words hovered on the tip of his tongue, he was never quite able to deliver this particular approbation, not when he only saw Sherlock once every few weeks, and he was never sure, during these brief visits, when or even if he would see him again. Greg couldn't bring himself to add anything to the stricken look that Sherlock perpetually wore these days. However, he personally thought that this was what happened when you grew up thinking that "caring was not an advantage." You finally do start to care about someone, but you can't recognize it, admit, and sure as hell have no idea how to fucking deal with it. It was a fair assessment, all things considered, and Greg's opinion was reinforced by Sherlock's demeanor and behavior.

The DI tried to be supportive, really, he did. He attempted to get Sherlock to talk about the situation, how he felt, but god forbid he actually admit to feeling something, especially that he was having difficulty coping. His reactions to Greg were various: sometimes he made the most disdainful face possible, others he ignored the DI completely, in moments of the most extreme exhaustion, Sherlock looked openly miserable, but maintained that "it would be over soon." This was one of those moments that generated in Greg a resurgent desire hug Sherlock, shake him senseless, and then kill Sherlock and Mycroft's parents.

At the same time that Greg wanted Sherlock to admit that he was upset about John, he wanted Sherlock to not have to worry because brooding would leave him distracted, it was already leaving him distracted, tired, irritable. All of these things were dangerous in an already perilous situation. Every time Sherlock came back, he put himself at risk. Every time he looked in on John, no matter how clever the disguise, he endangered them both. Greg hated himself for being happy to see Sherlock because he understood that it was imperative that the consulting detective stay as far away as possible until this bloody business was finished. He actually agreed with Mycroft on that point. It made him feel guilty, and every time Sherlock left, Greg couldn't help but feel a bit more reluctant. You'd think it'd be routine by now, but it just keeps getting worse, he mused with a twisting knot in his stomach, as the young man left yet again. Greg wondered how much longer they could all sustain this system. Mycroft was taxed beyond measure, though he tried to hide it. Greg was relatively certain that he himself was aging at a more rapid rate than was natural (though in all honesty, signing on to be a part of this family necessarily entailed premature aging; he was aware of that, he had just never expected it to be quite so extreme. More the fool I).

Sherlock had been gone two days. Mycroft and Greg had begun to do regular shifts with John. Regular being loosely defined here. Greg continued to see John once a day. Mycroft, as far as Greg understood, and much to his consternation, though very far from the realm of surprise, would visit John quite randomly. Greg was certain that Mycroft saw his visits as highly scheduled, logical, and determined by complex factors (one of which was undoubtedly the determination to surprise John). John had repeatedly asked Greg to "call off" Mycroft. Of course, when John had asked, there were more expletives involved. In good faith, Greg had mentioned something to Mycroft, but his partner was adamant that his visits with John were necessary.

"He expects you, Gregory," Mycroft explained, "He no doubt modifies his behavior accordingly. If he is unprepared, I shall be better able to accurately determine his condition."

"You just like surprising people," Greg maintained.

"Is that against the law, Gregory," he inquired archly.

"Not when you bloody make them," the DI grumbled.

"I consider it to be a perk," Mycroft smirked before turning serious again, "I worry about John quite as much as you do. I have my methods."

Which included surprise visits at inconvenient times and twenty-four hour surveillance through a variety of media. Greg did not particularly support Mycroft's "methods" under usual circumstances. At worst, he down right contested them, at best, he agreed to live and let live as far as such things went. Present circumstances had pushed the DI to actively endorse certain invasive measures, which he had once actively opposed because, when it came to keeping an eye on the boys, he needed the best, and Mycroft had made watching over people a profession.

It was a rainy day, and Greg was at a crime scene. It was awkward to say the least. The cases went much more slowly without Sherlock. Everyone felt his absence on the scene keenly. There was just something missing without the mysterious man in the coat, solving entire cases from seemingly insignificant data and insulting nearly everyone in completely resonant ways. It was strange to be here without him. Greg knew that some members of his team were happy that Sherlock was gone, and he hated them fiercely, but there were some who missed the detective, who had grown fond of him over the years, or, at the very least, had grown accustomed to him. They were kind to Greg. In many ways, they treated him like the grieving man that he was. He accepted their condolences with a nod and a tight-lipped smile, encouraging people to focus on the work as much as possible. He assigned the worst jobs to those that deserved them. If Anderson or Donovan think they are going to get within a hundred meters of significant evidence in the next few months, they are sorely mistaken. Sorely. Greg glowered moodily at his coffee cup and shivered slightly in the cold, damp air. He missed Sherlock, too. When he was at a scene, especially, he felt Sherlock's absence, kept expecting him to swoop in dramatically and deduce the hell out of the corpse and the surrounding area. He wondered where Sherlock was now, what he was doing. Greg honestly had no idea. Was he safe? Probably not. Was he behaving? Definitely not. Was he alive? God, I hope so. Was he focused on the dangerous task at hand? Had he returned to certain extra-curricular activities to help calm his mind and smooth the brain work? Greg rather dreaded that scenario. He understood what happened when Sherlock was desperate, and this situation had left him nothing if not that. He jumped off of a sodding building, Greg reasoned reluctantly, I'm not quite sure I'd put anything past him right now: murder, larceny, black-mail, torture, smoking, drugs…Jesus…

Greg also missed having John at the scene. He had been a kindred spirit, and, honestly, everyone had liked John. Well, Greg qualified, everyone with an opinion worth a damn. The team had especially grown fond of the blogger once they realized that he was largely responsible for humanizing Sherlock, making him more tolerable, less abrasive. The Yard had grown rather accustomed to having John and Sherlock as a team, to lose one to death and one to the depths of despair at once was rather a blow to their larger family. People asked after John frequently. Greg generally shrugged in response, shaking his head, and answering, "How do you expect?" People on the force understood; they had seen the families of those who had lost someone. They nodded and moved on, talked about giving John food or sending a note. Based on Greg's interactions with John recently, it seemed highly likely that the current resident of 221B would scoff at the sentiments and toss them away. There was a lot of untouched food in the flat as well as unread mail. Greg just sighed and went back to work.

It was twenty minutes later that he got the text. He was determined to keep all modes of communication open at all times, in case of the (very likely) event of an emergency. He was paranoid about it. He checked his mobile every five minutes at least, like a nervous twitch. He was prepared for news of any variety. Which was why, when he heard the tone, he snatched his phone from his pocket and backed away from the scene; everyone gave him a wide berth. He saw that he had a text….a text from Mycroft. It could just be a reminder to pick up dinner on his way home, a quick note to let Greg know that he would be late or early this evening, or an update to inform him that he had gotten confirmation that Sherlock was alive and well somewhere, performing some unknown activity in secret. Maybe, it was just a wonderfully witty flirtation text to break up his day. It could have been any of these. That was true. But Greg had a creeping sensation running down his spine. He looked at the screen, opened the message, and read:

221B. Come immediately. It is a matter of some urgency.

-Mycroft

Greg felt chills run up his arms, and he sprinted, without thinking about it and without saying a single word in departure, to the nearest cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to (the very long awaited Chapter 10). I apologize for not having posted this sooner. Real life got in the way. I hope that you enjoy. Thanks for taking the time to read this story and sticking with me through my hiatus. Comments are always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> The muse of angst has returned in all of her glory. This is going to be a multi-chapter story that follows TRF and leads up to my other fic, You Were My Life. 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment if you can. Until next time, thanks for reading


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